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 the infrequent shooting of this section of the army suggested merely a maneuver, more than a real battle. One felt a certain pleasure and freedom in being in this low country, and it was not disagreeable to lie in the furrows. My eyes were delighted with the harmony of the lovely autumn colors which in all their shades and tints had touched everything in the level field as well as in the small distant forests.

In front of me lay the infantryman, Vaněk, a tall, bony fellow with an irregular, pale-colored full beard, but with a good-natured manner and a simple, open face. He usually remained aloof out of some sort of rural shyness, and meditated quietly on his own affairs. He was an older man, married and the father of three children, as I learned in conversation with him. The tips of his big boots with their broad soles were dug into the furrow and his trousers were soiled from the soft earth.

“We’re well off here, aren’t we, Vaněk?” I said to him.

“Well off is right, Mr. Sergeant,” he answered readily. “Very comfortable.”

“If it would only be like this every day we’d be happy, wouldn’t we?”

“Well, I should say so! Ha! Ha!”

“Oh, as for our rustic,” sounded the thin, disagreeable voice of another infantryman, Ejem, lying not far off, “he is right at home here!” (They always called Vaněk “the rustic.”)