But there is no time to waste in talking. The thing is to get clear
and be after the others with all strength and speed. We hurry out.
In spite of broken backs and aching feet, we set ourselves savagely
to this last effort on which the comfort of a week depends.

The squad divides into two patrols and sets off at the double, one
to left and one to right along the street, which is already
obstructed by busy questing poilus; and all the groups see and watch
each other--and hurry. In places there are collisions, jostlings,
and abuse.

"Let's begin down there at once, or our goose'll be cooked!" I have
an impression of a kind of fierce battle between all the soldiers,
in the streets of the village they have just occupied. "For us,"
says Marthereau, "war is always struggling and fighting--always,
always."

We knock at door after door, we show ourselves timidly, we offer
ourselves like undesirable goods. A voice arises among us, "You
haven't a bit of a corner, madame, for some soldiers? We would pay."

"No--you see, I've got officers--under-officers, that is--you see,
it's the mess for the band, and the secretaries, and the gentlemen
of the ambulance--"

Vexation after vexation. We close again, one after the other, all
the doors we had half-opened, and look at each other, on the wrong
side of the threshold, with dwindling hope in our eyes.