In the morning our champion boxer had reported sick in anticipation. He
looked convincingly pale and complained of the usual "pains all over."
The Medical Officer gave him "light duty" and he spent the day in camp,
picking up matches, bits of paper, and miscellaneous rubbish.

It seemed strange that the ruined houses, the belt of poplars, the
damaged farm, and the wood with the white château were still standing
there so peacefully after the bombardment of the previous night. The
frogs, charming creatures, were still croaking merrily.

When we had unloaded the trucks we sat down in the grass and awaited the
return of the engine.

The trees were dim in the warm haze. I gazed at the white château. It
fascinated me, for some inexplicable reason, and I felt an impulse to go
and explore it. I was seized by a mood such as I had rarely felt since
childhood, when almost every lonely and desolate building filled me with
a sense of awe and mystery, as though it were the home of ghosts or
fairies or witches. I was conscious of the absurdity of the emotion, but
I surrendered to it and even enjoyed its strangeness.

There was no sound of firing.

I obeyed the impulse and strolled down the little winding lane. It led
through a gap in the green hedge that surrounded the wood. Knowing that
the enchantment of the château would vanish as soon as I entered it, I
dawdled on the way so as to prolong my pleasure. Suddenly the bushes in
front of me caught fire and a bright sheet of flame shot upward and
almost simultaneously there was a sharp report. I was so thrilled by the