I felt the need of some ceremony, and I think others felt the
need of it too. There were little half-articulate attempts, in the
darkness, of men trying to show what they felt--a whisper or two--in the
queer jargon that is growing up between the two armies. An English
sentry mounted upon the fire-step, and looked out into the darkness
beside the Frenchman, and then, before the Frenchman stepped down,
patted him on the shoulder, as though he would say: "These
trenches--_all right_!--we'll look after them!"
Then I stumbled into a dug-out. A candle burnt there, and a French
officer was taking up his things. He nodded and smiled. "I go," he said.
"I am not sorry, and yet----" He shrugged his shoulders. I understood.
One is never sorry to go, but these trenches--these bits of France,
where Frenchmen had died--would no longer be guarded by Frenchmen. Then
he waved his hand round the little dug-out. "We give a little more of
France into your keeping." His gesture was extravagant and light, but
his face was grave as he said it. He turned and went out.
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