The cyclists, the officers, the orderlies, break away from the long moving mass.  Then, as they come up, a few of the men at a time are swallowed up by the barns, the still available houses being reserved for officers and departments.  Our half-company is led at first to the end of the village, and then—­by some misunderstanding among the quartermasters—­back to the other end, the one by which we entered.  This oscillation takes up time, and the squad, dragged thus from north to south and from south to north, heavily fatigued and irritated by wasted walking, evinces feverish impatience.  For it is supremely important to be installed and set free as early as possible if we are to carry out the plan we have cherished so long—­to find a native with some little place to let, and a table where the squad can have its meals.  We have talked a good deal about this idea and its delightful advantages.  We have taken counsel, subscribed to a common fund, and decided that this time we will take the header into the additional outlay.

But will it be possible?  Very many places are already snapped up.  We are not the only ones to bring our dream of comfort here, and it will be a race for that table.  Three companies are coming in after ours, but four were here before us, and there are the officers, the cooks of the hospital staff for the Section, and the clerks, the drivers, the orderlies and others, official cooks of the sergeants’ mess, and I don’t know how many more.  All these men are more influential than the soldiers of the line, they have more mobility and more money, and can bring off their schemes beforehand.  Already, while we march four abreast towards the barn assigned to the squad, we see some of these jokers across the conquered thresholds, domestically busy.

Tirette imitates the sounds of lowing and bleating—­“There’s our cattle-shed.”  A fairly big barn.  The chopped straw smells of night-soil, and our feet stir up clouds of dust.  But it is almost enclosed.  We choose our places and cast off our equipment.

Those who dreamed yet once again of a special sort of Paradise sing low—­yet once again.  “Look now, it seems as ugly as the other places.”—­“It’s something like the same.”—­“Naturally.”

But there is no time to waste in talking.  The thing is to get clear and be after the others with all strength and speed.  We hurry out.  In spite of broken backs and aching feet, we set ourselves savagely to this last effort on which the comfort of a week depends.

The squad divides into two patrols and sets off at the double, one to left and one to right along the street, which is already obstructed by busy questing poilus; and all the groups see and watch each other—­and hurry.  In places there are collisions, jostlings, and abuse.

“Let’s begin down there at once, or our goose’ll be cooked!” I have an impression of a kind of fierce battle between all the soldiers, in the streets of the village they have just occupied.  “For us,” says Marthereau, “war is always struggling and fighting—­always, always.”