Accommodation in farms is best described by the word “promiscuous.”  There are twelve officers and two hundred men billeted here.  The farm is exactly the same as any other French farm.  It consists of a hollow square of buildings—­dwelling-house, barns, pigstyes, and stables—­with a commodious manure-heap, occupying the whole yard except a narrow strip round the edge, in the middle, the happy hunting-ground of innumerable cocks and hens and an occasional pig.  The men sleep in the barns.  The senior officers sleep in a stone-floored boudoir of their own.  The juniors sleep where they can, and experience little difficulty in accomplishing the feat.  A hard day’s marching and a truss of straw—­these two combined form an irresistible inducement to slumber.

Only a few miles away big guns thunder until the building shakes.  To-morrow a select party of officers is to pay a visit to the trenches.  Thereafter our whole flock is to go, in its official capacity.  The War is with us at last.  Early this morning a Zeppelin rose into view on the skyline.  Shell fire pursued it, and it sank again—­rumour says in the British lines.  Rumour is our only war correspondent at present.  It is far easier to follow the course of events from home, where newspapers are more plentiful than here.

But the grim realities of war are coming home to us.  Outside this farm stands a tall tree.  Not many months ago a party of Uhlans arrived here, bringing with them a wounded British prisoner.  They crucified him to that self-same tree, and stood round him till he died.  He was a long time dying.

Some of us had not heard of Uhlans before.  These have now noted the name, for future reference—­and action.

XV

IN THE TRENCHES—­AN OFF-DAY

This town is under constant shell fire.  It goes on day after day:  it has been going on for months.  Sometimes a single shell comes:  sometimes half a dozen.  Sometimes whole batteries get to work.  The effect is terrible.  You who live at home in ease have no conception of what it is like to live in a town which is under intermittent shell fire.

I say this advisedly.  You have no conception whatsoever.

We get no rest.  There is a distant boom, followed by a crash overhead.  Cries are heard—­the cries of women and children.  They are running frantically—­running to observe the explosion, and if possible pick up a piece of the shell as a souvenir.  Sometimes there are not enough souvenirs to go round, and then the clamour increases.

We get no rest, I say—­only frightfulness.  British officers, walking peaceably along the pavement, are frequently hustled and knocked aside by these persons.  Only the other day, a full colonel was compelled to turn up a side-street, to avoid disturbing a ring of excited children who were dancing round a beautiful new hole in the ground in the middle of a narrow lane.