I jump out of bed and fling the large window clear up—my room is flooded with light——
It is a regiment which is passing—it comes straight from Dead Man's Hill. Our poilus are tanned, but their faces are worn——
"My poor poilus, your uniforms are covered with dry mud, but you are magnificent——!"
The band plays "Sambre and Meuse" and I am so affected that I throw myself on the bed and sob like a child.
A LITERAL TRANSLATION, CAMP MAILLY.
July, 1916.
I was assisting at some trench-mortar tests which have lasted several days. The President of the Republic, accompanied by a large suite, honored us by his visit to-day.
The camp presented an extremely unique aspect by reason of the great number of Russian officers and men, which one sees everywhere.
Out of consideration for the visit of M. Poincaré, a Russian Battalion gave an exhibition drill. When the President passed it in review, the Slavic troops became clamorous. They shouted in Russian something which must have meant:
"Long live the President of the French Republic."
From their gestures one of our poilus was explaining the meaning to one of his comrades in back of me.