Along the roads of France, swinging along to dig a new line of
trenches, or on a march from a divisional headquarters to the front,
the soldiers would begin one of their Rabelaisian songs which have no
ending, but in verse after verse roam further into the purlieus of
indecent mirth, so that, as one French officer told me, "these ballads
used to make the heather blush." After the song would come the great
game of French soldiers on the march. The humourist of the company
would remark upon the fatigued appearance of a _sous-officier_ near
enough to hear.
"He is not in good form to-day, our little corporal. Perhaps it has
something to do with his week-end in Paris!"
Another humourist would take up the cue.
"He has a great thirst, our corporal. His first bottle of wine just
whets his whistle. At the sixth bottle he begins to think of drinking
seriously!"
"He is a great amorist, too, they tell me, and very passionate in his
love-making!"
So the ball is started and goes rolling from one man to another in the
ranks, growing in audacity and wallowing along filthy ways of thought,
until the _sous-officier_, who had been grinning under his _képi_,
suddenly turns red with anger and growls out a protest....