try to locate them with their artillery, and when
they do they simply blow them to pieces. That
night they got the range of this post and turned
their guns
loose. Your poor countryman thought
the end of the world had come. His escape was
cut off. The sap, leading out, was obliterated by
great shells. There was nothing for him to
do except to stay and take his chances, and they
were pretty slender. At the end of an hour nothing whatever was left of the post except a heap
of formless earth; yet, through one of the miracles
of war, the sentry remained untouched. As soon
as the fire had lifted, the poor devil crawled back
to the front line trench and climbed the parapet.
He expected to be greeted as a hero, as the saviour
of France. He pictured a deputation welcoming
him at the parapet with the Croix de Guerre, with
the Military Medal, with the Legion of Honour.
“There was a deputation at the parapet—of poilus, crowding around him with anxious and envious faces. They greeted him in an excited fashion.
"You lucky devil!'" they cried. “For the love of Heaven, let us see! How much aluminum did you get from those Boche shells?'"
The machine gun officer, in spite of his appreciation of the incident as humorous, expressed
