The back of the attack is broken, and we are beginning to get a little
rest. During the first week our cars averaged runs of two hundred miles
a day. And this over roads chewed to pieces, and through the most
difficult traffic. In one of the places, there was a formidable shell
gantlet to run.
This morning I drove to B. with a _poilu_. He asked me what I did
_en civil_. I told him. "I am a _pâtissier_," he replied. "When this
business is over, we shall have some cakes together in my good warm
shop, and my wife shall make us some chocolate." He gave me his
address. A regiment of young men marched singing down the moorland road
to the battle-line. "_Ah, les braves enfants!_" said the pastry cook.