Puck had got his way, and I could
see by the light in his annoyingly beautiful eyes how exquisitely he
enjoyed the situation. Brian and Brian's kitbag were transferred to the
Red Cross taxi, there and then, to save delay for us and the officer who
would meet us, in case the wretched car should get a _panne_, en route
to Bar-le-Duc. As a matter of fact, that is what happened; or at all
events when our big, reliable motor purred with us into Bar-le-Duc, the
O'Farrells were nowhere to be seen.
Our officer--another lieutenant--had arrived in a little Ford; and as we
were invited to lunch in the citadel of Verdun we could not wait. I felt
sure the demon Puck had managed to be late on purpose, so that my
Verdun day might be spoiled by anxiety for Brian. Thus he would kill two
birds with one stone: show how little I gained by the enemy's absence,
and punish me for not letting him make love!
The road to Verdun was a wonderful prelude. After three years' Titanic
battling, how could there be a road at all? I had had vague visions of
an earthly turmoil, a wilderness of shell-holes where once had gleamed
rich meadows and vineyards, with little villages set jewel-like among
them, and the visions were true. But through the war-worn desert always
the road unrolled--the brave white road. Heaven alone could tell the
deeds of valour which had achieved the impossible, making and remaking
that road! It should have some great poem all to itself, I thought; a
poem called "The Road to Verdun.
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