it, and touched it with a swift but tender touch in every movement.
When it was fired it ran up an inclined plane to take off the recoil,
rushing up and then turning and rattling down again upon the gunners
who were used to its ways. The first time it did it, I was standing
behind it, and I don't know which moved quickest--the gun or I.

French officers above a certain rank develop and show their own
individuality. In the lower grades the conditions of service enforce a
certain uniformity. The British officer is a British gentleman first,
and an officer afterwards. The Frenchman is an officer first, though
none the less the gentleman stands behind it. One very strange type we
met, however, in these Argonne Woods. He was a French-Canadian who had
been a French soldier, had founded a homestead in far Alberta, and had
now come back of his own will, though a naturalised Briton, to the old
flag. He spoke English of a kind, the quality and quantity being
equally extraordinary. It poured from him and was, so far as it was
intelligible, of the woolly Western variety. His views on the Germans
were the most emphatic we had met. 'These Godam sons of'--well, let us
say 'Canines!' he would shriek, shaking his fist at the woods to the
north of him. A good man was our compatriot, for he had a very recent
Legion of Honour pinned upon his breast. He had been put with a few men
on Hill 285, a sort of volcano stuffed with mines, and was told to
telephone when he needed relief. He refused to telephone and remained
there for three weeks. 'We sit like a rabbit in his hall,' he
explained. He had only one grievance. There were many wild boars in the
forest, but the infantry were too busy to get them. 'The Godam
Artillaree he get the wild pig!' Out of his pocket he pulled a picture
of a frame-house with snow round it, and a lady with two children on
the stoop. It was his homestead at Trochu, seventy miles north of
Calgary.