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.
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