His choice was the feminine, and the
Boche described as "she" throughout made me think better of
myself, which is the essence of friendship. We climbed a
flight of old stone steps, for generations the playground of
little children, and found a ruined church, and a battalion in
billets, recreating themselves with excellent music and a
little horseplay on the outer edge of the crowd. The trouble
in the hills was none of their business for that day.
Still higher up, on a narrow path among the trees, stood a
priest and three or four officers. They watched the battle
and claimed the great bursts of smoke for one side or the
other, at the same time as they kept an eye on the flickering
aeroplane. "Ours," they said, half under their breath.
"Theirs." "No, not ours that one--theirs! . . . That fool
is banking too steep . . . That's Boche shrapnel. They
always burst it high. That's our big gun behind that outer
hill . . . He'll drop his machine in the street if he
doesn't take care . . . There goes a trench-sweeper.
Those last two were theirs, but _that_"--it was a full roar
--"was ours."
BEHIND THE GERMAN LINES
The valley held and increased the sounds till they seemed to
hit our hillside like a sea.
A change of light showed a village, exquisitely pencilled atop
of a hill, with reddish haze at its feet.
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