As Mme. Baugan dressed Revaud, she grumbled and scolded good-naturedly because the corpse was difficult to manage.
Sandrap, Mery and Remusot said nothing. The rain streamed down the panes, which never stopped rattling because of the gunfire.
ON THE SOMME FRONT
I hadn’t the heart to laugh, but sometimes I felt vaguely envious. I thought of the men who were carrying on the war, in the newspapers—those who wrote: “The line has been pierced; why hesitate to throw in fifty divisions?” Or: “we have only to bring our reserves right up to the line. A hundred thousand men must at once fill the gap.”
I longed to see that brave set compelled to find between Fouilly and Maricourt a little corner as secure as their little heaps of paper plans, on which a purring cat might find repose. I swear they would have found it rather difficult.
I thought abstractedly about my work as I went along; from time to time I glanced round at the scene, and I assure you one hit upon some queer things.
Beneath the rows of poplar trees that stretched along the valley a huge army had taken cover, with its battalions, its animals and wagons, its iron and steel, its faded tarpaulins and leather trappings that stank, and its refuse heaps. Horses nibbled at the bark of large decaying trees, that were stricken with a premature autumnal disease. Three meagre elm trees served as a shelter for a whole encampment: a dusty hedge threw its protecting shadow over the ammunition train of a regiment. But the vegetation was scarce and the shelter it afforded most scanty, so that from all parts the army overflowed right on to the bare plain, tearing up the surface of the roads and leaving a regular network of tracks, as if great hordes of wild beasts had made their passage along it.
There were roads that marked off the British from the French. There you could see marching by the splendid artillery of the British, quite new and glistening, fitted with light-coloured harness and nickel-plated buckles, with special rugs for the horses, that were well fed and gleaming like circus mounts.
The infantry were also filing past—young men, all of them. They marched to the wild negro music of the flutes and gaily-coloured drums. Then cars fitted with beds, tier upon tier, came slowly along, jolting as little as possible, carrying the wounded fair-haired boys with wondering eyes, looking as placid as a touring party of Cook’s.
Our villages were packed to suffocation. Man had got everywhere, like a plague or a flood.