stunk like a cesspool."

"That's right," says Volpatte. "It wasn't an ordinary listening-post
hole, where one comes and goes regularly. It was just a shell-hole,
like any other old shell-hole, neither more nor less. They said to
us on Thursday, 'Station yourselves in there and keep on firing,'
they said. Next day, a liaison chap of the 5th Battalion came and
showed his neb: 'What the hell are you doing there?'--'Why, we're
firing. They told us to fire, so we're firing,' I says. 'If they
told us to do it, there must be some reason at the back of it. We're
wanting for them to tell us to do something else.' The chap made
tracks. He looked a bit uneasy, and suffering from the effects of
being bombed. 'It's 22,' he says."

"To us two," says Fouillade, "there was a loaf of bread and a bucket
of wine that the 18th gave us when they planted us there, and a
whole case of cartridges, my boy. We fired off the cartridges and
drank the booze, but we had sense to keep a few cartridges and a
hunch of bread, though we didn't keep any wine."

"That's where we went wrong," says Volpatte, "seeing that it was a
thirsty job. Say, boys, you haven't got any gargle?"

"I've still nearly half a pint of wine," replies Farfadet. "Give it
to him," says Fouillade, pointing to Volpatte, "seeing that he's
been losing blood. I'm only thirsty."

Volpatte was shivering, and his little strapped-up eyes burned with
fever in the enormous dump of rags set upon his shoulders. "That's
good," he says, drinking.