ong ago some inquiring British scientist discovered that on
foggy days in London the efficiency of the average clerk was cut down
about fifty per cent. One begins to wonder how much of this winter
_impasse_ is due to the weather, and what the bright and active days
of early spring will bring. Certainly the weather that day weighed on
me. It was easier to look out through the window of the car than to
get out and investigate. The penetrating cold dulled our spirits.

A great lorry had gone into the mud at the side of the road and was
being dug out. A horse neatly disembowelled lay on its back in the
road, its four stark legs pointed upward.

"They have been firing at a German _Taube_," said the Commandant, "and
naturally what goes up must come down."

On the way back we saw the same horse. It was dark by that time, and
some peasants had gathered round the carcass with a lantern. The hide
had been cut away and lay at one side, and the peasants were carving
the animal into steaks and roasts. For once fate had been good to
them. They would dine that night.

Everywhere here and there along the road we had passed the small sheds
that sentries built to protect themselves against the wind, little
huts the size of an American patrol box, built of the branches of
trees and thatched all about with straw.

Now we passed one larger than the others, a shed with the roof
thatched and the sides plastered with mud to keep out the cold.

The Commandant halted the car. There was one bare little room with a
wooden bench and a door. The bench and the door had just played their
part in a tragedy.

I have been asked again and again whether it is true that on both
sides of the line disheartened soldiers have committed suicide during
this long winter of waiting. I have always replied that I do not know.
On the Allied side it is thought that many Germans have done so; I
daresay the Germans make the same contention. This one instance is
perfectly true. But it was the result of an accident, not of
discouragement.

The sentry was alone in his hut, and he was cleaning his gun. For a
certain length of time he would be alone. In some way the gun exploded
and blew off his right hand. There was no one to call on for help. He
waited quite a while. It was night. Nobody came; he was suffering
frightfully.

Perhaps, sitting there alone, he tried to think out what life would be
without a right hand. In the end he decided that it was not worth
whi