General approval. No one doubts but that the victory will be speedy—within three months, or before Christmas at the latest.
Provisions are distributed; we eat and drink. Toasts are passed. The train rumbles gently along; by noon we have only reached Villiers-sur-Marne. Along the whole length of the line stand people waving their handkerchiefs and wishing us good luck.
Our stops are frequent and prolonged. From time to time we jump down to stretch our legs a little. A red disc bars the way. Behind our train waits another, which sets up a loud strident whistle. The engine starts afresh. A few kilometres farther along, another stop. At the stations they offer us fresh, clear water in pails; they even offer us wine. Everything is very welcome.
It is sultry. Conversation begins to languish. Those who have a photograph of their children pass it round. We look at these portraits with the utmost sympathy and return them to the father, who apologizes for the fact that his eyes are brimming with tears.
Night descends. The men, half asleep, drowsily nod their heads or drop them gently on to their neighbours' shoulders.
Wednesday, 12th August.
About three in the morning we reach Langres. In the dimly lit station a thousand men are moving to and fro, asking questions. At the exit stand sub-officers, holding above their heads, at the end of a pole, large boards stating the numbers of the regiments. They collect their reservists and carry them off.
Is there no placard containing our number? What are we to do? I show my paper to an adjutant.
"The 352nd, 27th company? You must go to Humes."
"Humes! Where is that?"