He took us into a wooden shed, furnished with
rows of benches, telling us of the trip to Paris he
had made to purchase a cinema outfit.
"Every night they come here in hordes," he cried. "The men pay a penny, and the officers a franc. You know, if the war lasts long enough I wouldn't be surprised if we got back the price of the affair."
His enthusiasm made him close the doors and run a reel through the machine. It chanced to be a review of this division by the Queen before its departure for the front. The long rows swung by, and the officers commenced to recognise faces and to talk There were some we remembered—the general's for instance.
"There goes poor So and So. The Huns did him in with a trench mortar a month ago."
“Hello! There's Jerry—home, minus a leg."
Or, "The men like this thing because they see old friends, that they won't see any other way now, walking along with them."
It was an abominably depressing performance. Something about the mechanism stuttered. The light flashed out. The screen was dark. Our active showman was full of apologies as he ran stumbling about the stage.
"They ought to take some pictures of us out
