The principal grief of the poilus appeared to be that a shell two or three days before had destroyed the store of the great dragee (sugared almond) manufactory of Verdun.  Before leaving, the manufacturer had bequeathed his stock to the army, and they were all regretting that they had not been greedier and eaten up the dragees quicker.

In the trenches near Verdun, as in the trenches in Flanders, you find the men talking little of war, but much of their homes and their families.  I came once upon a group of Bretons.  They had opened some tins of sardines and, sitting around a bucket of blazing coals, they were toasting the fish on the ends of small twigs.  I asked them why they were wasting their energies, since the fish were ready to be eaten straight from the tins.  “We know,” they replied; “but it smells like home.”  I suppose with the odour of the cooking fish, in the blue haze of the smoke, they saw visions of their cottages and the white-coiffed Bretonnes frying the fresh sardines that they had caught.

The dusk was now falling, and, entering the car, we proceeded towards the lower part of the town at a snail’s pace in order not to draw the German fire.  We were told that at the present time approximately one hundred shells a day still fall on Verdun, but at the time of the great attack the number was as high as eight hundred, whilst as many as two hundred thousand shells fell daily in and around Verdun.

Just before we reached the entrance to the citadel, the enemy began to shell the city, and one of the shells exploded within two hundred feet of the car.  We knew that we were near the entrance to the vaults of the citadel and could take refuge, so we left the car and proceeded on foot.  Without thinking, we walked in the centre of the road, and the sentinel at the door of the citadel began in somewhat emphatic French to recommend us to “longer les murs” (to hug the walls tightly).  The Germans are well aware of the entrance to the citadel and daily shell the spot.  If one meets a shell in the centre of the road it is obviously no use to argue, whilst in hugging the side of the wall there is a possibility of only receiving the fragments of the bursting shell.

The subterranean galleries of the citadel of Verdun were constructed by Vauban, and are now a hive of activity—­barbers’ shops, sweet shops, boot shops, hospitals, anything and everything which goes to make up a small city.

One of the young officers placed his “cell” at our disposal.  The long galleries are all equipped with central heating and electric light, and some of them have been divided off by wooden partitions or curtains like the dormitories in a large school.  In the “cell” allocated to us we could see the loving touch of a woman’s hand.  Around the pillow on the small camp-bed was a beautiful edging of Irish lace, and on the dressing-table a large bottle of eau-de-Cologne.  There is no reason to be too uncomfortable in Verdun when one has a good little wife to think of one and to send presents from time to time.