The Fog by Hilaire Belloc — Read

(_A young man in the uniform of a Lieutenant of Dragoons is riding on the edge of a wood in a thick fog. The month is the month of November, and the year is the year 1793. The young man has a simple, open face, with rather protuberant blue eyes and sandy hair. His mouth is at a half smile, and he does not seem to mind having lost his way. His name is Boutroux._)

BOUTROUX. The more I see of warfare the more I am astonished! . It is true I have only seen four months of it. My father would be very much astonished if he could see me now! . My mother would be more than astonished: she would be positively alarmed! On the other hand (_musing_) it is a great relief to me, and would be a still greater relief to her, that I cannot hear the sound of firearms. The more I see of warfare the more and more perplexed I become. (_Looking up at the edge of the wood on his left._) Now what is that wood? Before the fog fell I could have sworn we were in an open rolling country with spinneys here and there, and I could almost have told you very roughly where we were and where the enemy were -- more or less -- so to speak -- and now here is a horrid great wood! And where am I?