anything else, did wonders there and then.

Yesterday, I grieve to say, I was not at the head of my troop. I was
unable to take part in the epic battle round Bixschoote, the poor
Belgian village which was retaken and then abandoned by us for the
twentieth time. I was not present at the heroic death of the gallant
and charming Colonel d'A., of the ---- Chasseurs, the author of those
heart-stirring pages--and among them "The Charge"--which bring tears
to the eyes of every cavalryman. He died facing the enemy, leading his
regiment to the attack under terrific fire, and when his men carried
him away they ranged themselves round him to make a rampart of their
bodies for the chief they adored. I was not able to share the danger
of my young comrade, Second-Lieutenant J., who fell bravely at the
head of his marksmen, in the middle of my beloved regiment, in which
fresh gaps have been made by the enemy's bullets. My seniority had
marked me out as officer of _liaison_ to the General commanding our
division. But this morning at dawn I came back to take my place in the
firing line, and I think I shall be able to make up for lost time.

The day has been absolutely quiet, however. After the fighting of the
day before, and a night of sleeplessness and incessant alarms in the
trenches, three of our squadrons, mine among them, were relieved
before dawn and placed in reserve. They found billets in little
forsaken farms some 600 yards from the firing line. Our men rested as
well as they could all day, making beds of the scanty supplies of
straw they found, washing themselves in pools, and renewing their
strength in order to relieve the troops which had remained in the
trenches; a squadron of our regiment, a squadron of the ----
Chasseurs, and a section of infantry Chasseurs.