magine the joy of the
French troops in the next village when, with a soup ladle in his
hand, his assistants armed with German rifles, followed by the
soup kitchen and twenty prisoners--he marched in to report.

An Instance Of Quick Wit

It is curious how near humour is to tragedy in war, how quick wit
may serve a useful purpose, and even save life. A young French
medical student told me that he owed his life to the quick wit of the
women of a village and the sense of humour of a Saxon officer.
Whilst passing from one hospital to another he was captured by a
small German patrol, and in spite of his papers proving that he
was attached to the Red Cross Service, he was tried as a spy and
condemned to be shot. At the opening of his trial the women had
been interested spectators, towards the end all of them had
vanished. He was placed against a barn door, the firing squad
lined up, when from behind the hedge bordering a wood, the
women began to bombard the soldiers with eggs. The aim was
excellent, not one man escaped; the German officer laughed at
the plight of his men and, in the brief respite accorded, the young
man dashed towards the hedge and vanished in the undergrowth.
The Germans fired a few shots but there was no organised
attempt to follow him, probably because their own position was not
too secure. He was loth to leave the women to face the music, but
they insisted that it was pour la patrie and that they were quite
capable of taking care of themselves. Later he again visited the
village and the women told him that beyond obliging them to clean
the soldiers' clothes thoroughly, the German officer had inflicted no
other punishment upon them.

A certain number of inhabitants are still living in the village of
Revigny. You see everywhere placards announcing "Caves pour
25," "Caves pour 100," and each person knows to which cellar he
is to go if a Taube should start bombing the village. I saw one
cellar marked "120 persons, specially safe, reserved for the
children." Children are one of the most valuable assets of France,
and a good old Territorial "Pe-Pere" (Daddy), as they are
nicknamed, told me that it was his special but difficult duty to
muster the children directly a Taube was signalled and chase them
down into the cellar. Mopping his brow he assured me that it was
not easy to catch the little beggars, who hid in the ruins, behind the
army wagons, anywhere to escape the "parental" eye, even
standin