"Catching water" was ordinarily a mixed pleasure. It consisted, as I have
mentioned, in the combined pushing and pulling of a curiously primitive
two-wheeled cart over a distance of perhaps three hundred yards to a kind
of hydrant situated in a species of square upon which the mediaeval
structure known as Porte (or Camp) de Triage faced stupidly and
threateningly. A _planton_ always escorted the catchers through a big
door, between the stone wall, which backed the men's _cour_ and the end
of the building itself, or, in other words, the canteen. The ten-foot
stone wall was, like every other stone wall, connected with La Ferte,
topped with three feet of barbed wire. The door by which we exited with
the water-wagon to the street outside was at least eight feet high,
adorned with several large locks. One pushing behind, one pulling in the
shafts, we rushed the wagon over a sort of threshold or sill and into the
street; and were immediately yelled at by the _planton_, who commanded us
to stop until he had locked the door. We waited until told to proceed;
then yanked and shoved the reeling vehicle up the street to our right,
that is to say, along the wall of the building, but on the outside. All
this was pleasant and astonishing.
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