"After all, this is an ugly cut in the thigh. He might have maimed me for life."
"That's perhaps what he wanted to do."
The wounded man sinks into a meditative mood. All through the night we roll along until we reach our station, when we descend and march away for the front.
Friday, 11th September.
About noon we enter the devastated zone at Dammartin: the telegraph lines have been torn down. Right and left of the road trees lie stretched on the ground; heaps of ashes are all that remains of the hayricks. In a ditch lies a corpse in red trousers and blue coat. Most of the men of the detachment have not yet been in the fighting line, and this is the first dead man, left lying on the ground, that they have seen. They are considerably moved, and even surprised.
We reach Nanteuil-le-Haudouin. The station has been destroyed. A convoy of provisions and supplies passes, escorted by cuirassiers. A glorious sunset.
A prolonged halt in front of the mairie. The place is full of troops and the mayor is at loss where to put us up.
"Go to Wattebled's farm," he says to the lieutenant.
This is a fine farm, though situated at the farther end of the town. The farmer is serving. Officers of the enemy have lodged in the building and have left the place in a dreadful condition. All the cupboards and wardrobes have been ransacked, and the contents flung about the rooms. The cellar is empty; broken bottles lie in every corner.
The beds, however, have been left intact. We quickly stretch ourselves at full length, delighted to rest after travelling for two nights and three days. The dinner has been nothing to boast of—neither bread nor wine, and scarcely any light.