ry place surrounded them, with its
empty doors, its bones of houses, and its bald-headed telegraph posts,
a crowd of hungry men were grinding their teeth and confirming the
absence of everything:--"The juice has sloped and the wine's up the
spout, and the bully's zero. Cheese? Nix. Napoo jam, napoo butter on
skewers."

"We've nothing, and no error, nothing; and play hell as you like, it
doesn't help."

"Talk about rotten quarters! Three houses with nothing inside but
draughts and damp."

"No good having any of the filthy here, you might as well have only the
skin of a bob in your purse, as long as there's nothing to buy."

"You might be a Rothschild, or even a military tailor, but what use'd
your brass be?"

"Yesterday there was a bit of a cat mewing round where the 7th are. I
feel sure they've eaten it."

"Yes, there was; you could see its ribs like rocks on the sea-shore."

"There were some chaps," says Blaire, "who bustled about when they got
here and managed to find a few bottles of common wine at the bacca-shop
at the corner of the street."

"Ah, the swine! Lucky devils to be sliding that down their necks."

"It was muck, all the same, it'd make your cup as black as your
baccy-pipe."

"There are some, they say, who've swallowed a fowl."

"Damn," says Fouillade.

"I've hardly had a bite. I had a sardine left, and a little tea in the
bottom of a bag that I chewed up with some sugar."

"You can't even have a bit of a drunk--it's off the map."

"And that isn't enough either, even when you're not a big eater and
you're got a communication trench as flat as a pancake."

"One meal in two days--a yellow mess, shining like gold, no broth and
no meat--everything left behind."

"And worst of all we've nothing to light a pipe with."

"True, and that's misery. I haven't a single match. I had several bits
of ends, but they've gone. I've hunted in vain through all the pockets
of my flea-case--nix. As for buying them it's hopeless, as you say."

"I've got the head of a match that I'm keeping." It is a real hardship
indeed, and the sight is pitiful of the poilus who cannot light pipe or
cigarette but put them away in their pockets and stroll in resignation.
By good fortune, Tirloir has his petrol pipe-lighter and it still
contains a little spirit. Those who are aware of it gather round him,
bringing their pipes packed and cold. There is not even any paper to
light, and the flame itself must be used until the