“Qu’est-ce que c’est, le nom de cette village?” Followed a flood of words apparently about the village.  A third time.  “Qu’est-ce que c’est, le nom de cette village?” At last:  “Ah, M’sieur, Villiers,” with an air of surprise, as if he thought the Subaltern had known all the time, and had asked merely to start a polite conversation.

He let the man go, and turned his attention to the village street, which presented a terrible spectacle of panic.  It was obviously unwise to allow this mob to leave the village, as they seemed to wish, and disperse, shouting and shrieking, over the countryside.  Very possibly there were spies amongst them, who would bring the enemy about his ears in half an hour.  More likely still, the whole excited crowd would wander straight into the arms of the Germans, and be treated with the well-known restraint of Huns towards the unprotected.  So he hurriedly placed guards at the chief outlets of the village, with orders, in addition to the usual duties towards the enemy, to prevent the French from leaving it.

He then returned and tried to pacify the inhabitants.  But his kind, soothing words in execrable French did not succeed in dispelling the panic and fear.  He had to draw his sword (for the purpose of intimidation only) and literally to thrust them into houses.  And he had to get three men with fixed bayonets to help him.  He did his best to make it generally understood that any one who came out of his house and made a noise would be summarily disposed of.  Any sounds of confusion would inevitably have drawn the fatal attentions of the enemy.

He then made a hurried survey of the roads leading out of the village, placed sentry groups at various places of advantage, and established the picket in the centre of the village in a large barn.  This done, he sent the cyclist orderly to try and get into touch with the village on the right, which, he had been told, was to be occupied by a platoon from another regiment.  The cyclist returned to report that the village was deserted by the French, and that there was no sign of the Blankshires.  Evidently the O.C.  Platoon had not been so fortunate in finding his way in the dark.

Dawn broke, and the expected order to retire did not come.  The men slept on, intent on snatching as many moments of precious sleep as possible.

Still no orders came.  At about eight o’clock the Subaltern finally awoke, and went the rounds of his groups.  There was nothing to report, all had been quiet.

When he got back he found that the men had collected quite a good number of eggs from abandoned farmyards, had lighted a fire, and were busy making a sort of stew out of bully beef and swedes, and (he strongly suspected) a stolen chicken.  As no orders came still, when he had finished his breakfast, he lay down in the shade of an apple tree and continued his sleep.  He woke up later, at about midday, and ate the remainder of his rations, and then fell asleep once more.