At this moment we were surrounded by a party of soldiers carrying
boxes in addition to their equipment, and parcels tied up in paper
that they bore reluctantly and anon placed on the ground, puffing.

"Those are the Staff secretaries. They are a part of the
H.Q.--Headquarters--that is to say, a sort of General's suite. When
they're flitting, they lug about their chests of records, their
tables, their registers, and all the dirty oddments they need for
their writing. Tiens! see that, there; it's a typewriter those two
are carrying, the old papa and the little sausage, with a rifle
threaded through the parcel. They're in three offices, and there's
also the dispatch-riders' section, the Chancellerie, the
A.C.T.S.--Army Corps Topographical Section--that distributes maps to
the Divisions, and makes maps and plans from the aviators and the
observers and the prisoners. It's the officers of all the
departments who, under the orders of two colonels, form the Staff of
the Army Corps. But the H.Q., properly so called, which also
includes orderlies, cooks, storekeepers, workpeople, electricians,
police, and the horsemen of the Escort, is bossed by a commandant."

At this moment we receive collectively a tremendous bump. "Hey, look
out! Out of the way!" cries a man, by way of apology, who is being
assisted by several others to push a cart towards the wagons. The
work is hard, for the ground slopes up, and so soon as they cease to
buttress themselves against the cart and adhere to the wheels, it
slips back. The sullen men crush themselves against it in the depth
of the gloom, grinding their teeth and growling, as though they fell
upon some monster.

Barque, all the while rubbing his back, questions one of the frantic