This evening another one came. The soldiers were just building their fires to cook dinner, when the command was passed along: "Stand close to the walls." The street, which a minute before was swarming with people is, to all appearances, empty and deserted, nothing but a single row of men on either side, standing close to the houses.
A platoon in a back street fires several times with machine guns. We watch anxiously.
"It's hit," someone shouts.
Sure enough, the 'plane gives a lurch and is certainly going to fall.
It is out of control.
But this was nothing but a trick. Once out of reach, it righted itself and shot straight forward in the direction of Coulommiers, where they say the Crown Prince and his staff are stationed.
It was a great disappointment.
The soldiers go on building their fires, making little square ovens of bricks. Rations have not arrived yet. Some of the men, worn out, stretch out on the ground to wait. It is getting dark.
The sight of these haggard men, gray with dust, blowing on fires which cast fitful gleams on their wan faces, calls up visions of Dante.