n an appearance.

The _buffet_ is so full of noise, smoke and various other odours, that
having opened the door one hesitates before entering. There is a long
counter where everything is sold; bread, wine, cider, beer and
lemonade; sandwiches, pates, fruit and sweetmeats. One makes his
choice and pays in consequence. At the side tables the civilians are
lost mid the mass of blue uniforms.

[Illustration: MONSIEUR AMEDE]

This is a station in Normandy, and for the boys of this region nothing
can substitute a good big bowl of hot vegetable soup, seasoned with the
famous _graisse normande_ and poured over thin slices of bread, the
whole topped off with a glass of cider or "pure juice" as they call it.
It is a joy to see them seated about the board, their elbows on the
table, their heads bent forward over the steaming bowl, whose savoury
perfume as it rises to their nostrils seems to carry with it a
veritable ecstasy, if one were to judge by the beatific expression on
every countenance.

"That goes right to the spot, doesn't it?"

From another table a voice responds:

"Yes, fellows, it's better than a kick in the shins, every time!"

The last mouthful gone, the cider bottles empty, they tighten the
straps of their kit bags and rise regretfully from their seats.

"_Allez_. Off again, boys! _C'est la guerre_!" and they shuffle away
humming and filling their pipes.

From the direction of the _buvette_, or bar comes noisy laughter
followed by oaths. The uncertain voice of a seemingly intoxicated
individual dominates all others. Yet nothing but soft drinks are sold.

"As the Colonel of the 243rd used to say," it continues, "'Soldiers of
my regiment, repose upon your arms!' My arms are the bottle! My
bottle and my wife are the only things worth while when I'm on
furlough. I----"

His voice disappeared an instant, dimmed by the rising tumult. Then
suddenly it broke forth anew--

"Attention! Present arms, here comes a coal scuttle. Now
then,--flatten out on the back of your stomach!"

An instant later the man appeared at the threshold of the dining room.

He was a heavily built, big jointed, husky Norman farmer-soldier, with
his helmet pulled down low over his eyes, so that the upper part of his
face was completely hidden from view.

Suddenly he pushed it far back on his head, and casting a sweeping
glance over the assembled diners, he called forth in stentorian tones
that made every one turn around: