EN ROUTE
Wednesday, 9th September.
The order to leave came this evening. Our detachment is to join up with the 352nd.
Final preparations: all the tins of preserves we had piled up in Girardot's loft are divided out amongst the men of the squadron; these tins—foies gras, tongue, knuckle of ham, corned beef—are called Rimailhos, because of their calibre.
At seven in the morning we leave Humes. The entire depot is present, and the people of the district bring us flowers with which we adorn our rifles. Roll-call. A short address by the commander of the depot. Shouts of "Vive la France!" En route as we thunder forth the Marseillaise.
At Langres station we pile up our rifles. A few innocent fellows scribble postcards, whilst we poke fun at them.
"Do you mean to say you're writing? You know it will never reach its destination!"
There is a sense of satisfaction, however, in sending a thought to those at home.