The day closed—­(after an amazing interlude in the chateau of a dream, which was all glassy ponds, stately trees, and vistas of white and gold saloons.  The proprietor was somebody’s chauffeur at the front, and we drank to his excellent health) —­at a little village in a twilight full of the petrol of many cars and the wholesome flavour of healthy troops.  There is no better guide to camp than one’s own thoughtful nose; and though I poked mine everywhere, in no place then or later did it strike that vile betraying taint of underfed, unclean men.  And the same with the horses.

THE LINE THAT NEVER SLEEPS

It is difficult to keep an edge after hours of fresh air and experiences; so one does not get the most from the most interesting part of the day—­the dinner with the local headquarters.  Here the professionals meet—­the Line, the Gunners, the Intelligence with stupefying photo-plans of the enemy’s trenches; the Supply; the Staff, who collect and note all things, and are very properly chaffed; and, be sure, the Interpreter, who, by force of questioning prisoners, naturally develops into a Sadducee.  It is their little asides to each other, the slang, and the half-words which, if one understood, instead of blinking drowsily at one’s plate, would give the day’s history in little.  But tire and the difficulties of a sister (not a foreign) tongue cloud everything, and one goes to billets amid a murmur of voices, the rush of single cars through the night, the passage of battalions, and behind it all, the echo of the deep voices calling one to the other, along the line that never sleeps.

. . . . . . .

The ridge with the scattered pines might have hidden children at play.  Certainly a horse would have been quite visible, but there was no hint of guns, except a semaphore which announced it was forbidden to pass that way, as the battery was firing.  The Boches must have looked for that battery, too.  The ground was pitted with shell holes of all calibres—­some of them as fresh as mole-casts in the misty damp morning; others where the poppies had grown from seed to flower all through the summer.

“And where are the guns?” I demanded at last.

They were almost under one’s hand, their ammunition in cellars and dug-outs beside them.  As far as one can make out, the 75 gun has no pet name.  The bayonet is Rosalie the virgin of Bayonne, but the 75, the watchful nurse of the trenches and little sister of the Line, seems to be always “soixante-quinze.”  Even those who love her best do not insist that she is beautiful.  Her merits are French—­logic, directness, simplicity, and the supreme gift of “occasionality.”  She is equal to everything on the spur of the moment.  One sees and studies the few appliances which make her do what she does, and one feels that any one could have invented her.

Famous French 75’s