The “Entente”
I have never seen such enthusiasm. Old men, women, and children fight in the streets to get close enough to shake hands with us, or beg a piece of cloth or a button from our uniforms as mementoes of the “Entente,” as they call it. At one village the women clamoured for locks of hair from us, and they had to get them. Even the sick are brought to the doors to see us pass: A Private Soldier.