For the present, we must drive out the invaders, thrust back this cursed and ambitious people which has long been preparing for war, and reduce it to impotence. Our brave soldiers are setting at the task body and soul.
All political parties have put aside their differences and, for the sake of the common cause, are walking hand in hand.
May victory keep and strengthen this spirit! It would be the first step on the road to happiness.
While the battle rages before us, our prayers go out to the heroes who are suffering and dying so near at hand. Each cannon-shot, as we think of the bloody trail it ploughs in its path, is like a stab in the heart.
And my thoughts are with the wounded as they try to crawl out of reach of bullets, huddling in a furrow, crouching behind a bush. Some of them with their little remaining strength write on the back of an old envelope their last farewells.
The vision of my brother rises before me. He is bleeding, near unto death. He calls for help. Every movement that he makes wrings from him a groan. By a superhuman effort, goaded on by the thought of his children and his longing to see them again, he succeeds in dragging himself to the banks of the Marne, in the hope of finding help. To assuage his fever he tries to dip his hand in the cool water. But his arm refuses to obey. His hand is rigid. No one to aid him. Shattered, weak, he lies there waiting—waiting for the help that never comes.
The road leading away from the Château de Condé across the bridge over the Grand Morin, looking away from the château
I am in despair. Surely there are wounded men in agony on the banks of the Marne.
If anyone would go with me, perhaps we could organize some sort of relief work. But how are we to get to the other side of the river? All the fishing boats, even the wash boat, have been sunk by the English. Can we do nothing but stand waiting here—useless—helpless?