V. LOW MASS AND BENEDICTION


One morning in the middle of September, 1914, as we raised our heads
at about six o'clock from the straw on which we had slept, I and my
friend F. had a very disagreeable surprise: we heard in the darkness
the gentle, monotonous noise of water falling drop by drop from the
pent-house roof on to the road.

Arriving at Pévy the evening before, just before midnight, we had
found refuge in a house belonging to a peasant. The hostess, a good
old soul of eighty, had placed at our disposal a small bare room paved
with tiles, in which our orderlies had prepared a sumptuous bed of
trusses of straw. The night had been delightful, and we should have
awaked in good spirits had it not been for the distressing fact
noticed by my friend.

"It is raining," said F.

I could not but agree with him. Those who have been soldiers, and
especially cavalrymen, know to the full how dispiriting is the sound
of those few words: "It is raining."

"It is raining" means your clothes will be saturated; your cloak will
be drenched, and weigh at least forty pounds; the water will drip from
your shako along your neck and down your back; above all, your high
boots will be transformed into two little pools in which your feet
paddle woefully. It means broken roads, mud splashing you up to the
eyes, horses slipping, reins stiffened, your saddle transformed into a
hip-bath. It means that the little clean linen you have brought with