_Fichtre!_ but
that was fierce fighting! And what a general! He did not know how
to spell 'defeat.' He wrote it 'victory.' Four times we went across
that cursed Marsh of St.-Gond. The dried mud was trampled full of
dead bodies. The trickling streams of water ran red. Four times
we were thrown back by the boches. You would have thought that was
enough. But the general did not think so. We went over again on
the fifth day, and that time we stayed. The Germans could not stand
against us. They broke and ran. The roads where we chased them
were full of empty wine-bottles. In one village we caught three
officers and a dozen men dead drunk. _Bigre!_ what a fine
joke!"
Pierre, leaning back upon his heels, was losing himself in his
recital. His face lighted up, his hands were waving. Father Courcy
bent forward with shining eyes.
"Continue," he cried. "This is a beautiful confession--no sin yet.
Continue, Pierre."
"Well, then, after that we were fighting here and there, on the
Aisne, on the Ailette, everywhere. Always the same story--Germans
rolling down on us in flood, green-gray waves.
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