“ ’Cré nom de Dieu! ” said French peasants, on the edge of all that, in villages like Gouy, Servins, Heuchin, Houdain, Grenay, Bruay, and Pernes. “The cauldron is boiling up⁠ ⁠… There will be a fine pot-au-feu.”

They wondered if their own sons would be in the broth. Some of them knew, and crossed themselves by wayside shrines for the sake of their sons’ souls, or in their estaminets cursed the Germans with the same old curses for having brought all this woe into the world.

In those villages⁠—Heuchin, Houdain, Lillers, and others⁠—on the edge of the Black Country the Scottish troops of the 15th Division were in training for the arena, practising attacks on trenches and villages, getting a fine edge of efficiency on to bayonet-work and bombing, and having their morale heightened by addresses from brigadiers and divisional commanders on the glorious privilege which was about to be theirs of leading the assault, and on the joys as well as the duty of killing Germans.