On the very first day, the father asked me to compose a letter of complaint to the local commandant, against a neighbour who had grabbed him by the throat, beaten him and, crying 'Demande pardon!', threatened to
kill him.
As I was on my way out of my room to go on duty, the daughter pushed the door shut against me. I took this to be one of her little jokes, pushed back, and our combined efforts were enough to lift the door off its hinges, and we waltzed round the room holding it between us for a few moments.
Suddenly it came down, and to our mutual embarrassment, and her mother's great hilarity, I saw she was standing there completely naked.
Never in all my life, incidentally, have I heard anyone swear and scold as volubly as that rose of Brancourt did, when a neighbour accused her of having once worked in a certain street in St-Quentin. 'Ah, cette plure, cette pomme de terre pourrie, jetee sur un fumier, c'est la creme de la creme pourrie,'* she bubbled, as she criss-crossed the room with her hands out in front of her like claws, lacking only a victim for her pent-up rage.
* This affair of honour is conducted in almost literally 'earthy' language, in which the essential item is a 'mouldy potato'.

Ernst Junger - Storm of Steel p. 81