At the end of the five days the whole battalion was pulled out for
rest. We marched a few miles to the rear and came to the village of
Petite-Saens. This town had been fought through, but for some
reason had suffered little. Few of the houses had been damaged, and
we had real billets.

My section, ten men besides myself, drew a big attic in a clean
house. There was loads of room and the roof was tight and there
were no rats. It was oriental luxury after Bully-Grenay and the
trenches, and for a wonder nobody had a word of "grousing" over
"kipping" on the bare floor.

The house was occupied by a very old peasant woman and a very
little girl, three years old, and as pretty as a picture. The old
woman looked ill and sad and very lonesome. One night as we sat in
her kitchen drinking black coffee and cognac, I persuaded her to
tell her story. It was, on the whole, rather a cruel thing to ask,
I am afraid. It is only one of many such that I heard over there.
France has, indeed, suffered. I set down here, as nearly as I can
translate, what the old woman said:

"Monsieur, I am very, very old now, almost eighty, but I am a
patriot and I love my France. I do not complain that I have lost
everything in this war. I do not care now, for I am old and it is
for my country; but there is much sadness for me to remember, and
it is with great bitterness that I think of the pig Allemand--beast
that he is.

"Two years ago I lived in this house, happy with my daughter and