It was now about 6:30 and on our way back to the gun pit we met a woman who seemed to be in the depths of despair, accompanied by a little girl.  The woman was weeping bitterly.  Our nerves were on edge and we were suspicious of everybody; trickery, deceit, traitor-work seemed to be in the very air itself, and we made a resolve that we would shoot anybody, man, woman or child, whom we saw loitering around our guns who had no business there; that very day the O.C. had sworn that he would ask no questions, but would shoot on sight.  The woman’s story was pitiful in the extreme.

“Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do!  My home is gone!  My husband is gone!  My children are gone!  And for what?”—­wringing her hands and gesticulating wildly.  “For what, Messieurs?  For being quiet, inoffensive, loyal people!”

In my clumsy fashion I succeeded in somewhat calming the poor creature, and she proceeded a little more coherently.

“Well, Messieurs, a man in Algerian uniform came to our house this morning.  He asked permission of my husband, who was a loyal Belgian, to use our house—­for what?  To do spy work.  My husband ran for a gun and warned him off.  He said, ’You had better think it over; if you don’t let me use your house you have not another day to live!’ In spite of this, my husband presented the gun at him and he made off, but as he was leaving he called back, ’Do not on any account leave the house today, any of you, or you will be killed.’

“We watched him and saw him go towards the hedge, and two or three men with bags met him, and they made off in the direction of your battery.  Then, then—­Mon Dieu! How can I tell it!—­a shell came and destroyed our home, killing my dear husband and my two babies.”

And again the poor woman burst into a paroxysm of weeping and sank to the ground in an utterly exhausted condition, moaning aloud in the despair of her misery.  Her little daughter was screaming in terror at the plight of her mother, and we all set about to comfort them as best we could, but ah!  God! how comfortless our words.

The thought that perhaps the child would be quieted if she had something to eat suggested itself to me, but I had nothing except my iron rations, and our orders are very stern that under no circumstances must these be consumed except at the time designated, namely, when our supply wagons are destroyed and cannot reach us, and the order is issued from headquarters that we may use them.  These rations are 16 ounces of bully beef, two hardtack biscuits, some tea and sugar in small wax envelopes.  Each man must carry his own iron rations at all times and the penalty for eating them without orders is 28 to 90 days, first field punishment; therefore, I was taking a chance, but I hadn’t the heart to resist the pitiful wail of that kiddie, and I felt that the risk I took was amply repaid by the cessation of her childish grief.  The mother also had had nothing to eat all day, and she partook of some of the nourishment and was the better for it.