Sunday, 13th September.
It appears that there is a dead German at the mairie. We go to look at him. There the fellow lies, stretched on the floor. His head is concealed beneath his arms; his sides, back and legs have been stripped bare by a shell explosion and he has evidently dragged himself here to die. A smell of decomposing flesh puts us to flight.
The detachment again starts off early across a devastated land. We are gaily received by the inhabitants of Villers-Cotterets, who, delivered from the enemy a couple of nights previously, fête the French troops incessantly marching into the town.
We quarter ourselves in the goods station, already partly occupied by wounded soldiers awaiting evacuation. Two Red Cross ladies, who had remained during the occupation, are kept busily employed. One of them appears behind a huge pot filled with coffee, from which the wounded help themselves. A German, his field-grey uniform in tatters, his jaws contracted and arms and legs all twisted up, is dying in a corner between two men attendants who do their best to relieve his agony. Other Germans, more or less wounded, lie pêle-mêle on the straw near our own men. No disputes or quarrels, victors and vanquished are alike exhausted.
The town gives more than ever the impression of a grand review. This is the headquarters of the Sixth Army; motor-cars rush up and down; in the streets are soldiers of every description, staff officers, generals. A 40-h.p. motor-car, flying the Stars and Stripes, stops in front of the mairie: immediately we imagine that the United States ambassador has come to offer peace on behalf of Germany, and we discuss the terms and conditions we must lay down.
Flanked by gendarmes, a knot of prisoners files past. They are in rags, covered with dust, and appear worn out. Soldiers and civilians line the road and watch them intently; not an exclamation is uttered; on every face is a look of radiant gaiety, forming a striking contrast with the surly expressions of the beaten Germans. Some of the latter have humble-looking, sensitive, fresh-complexioned countenances; these are the ones who must have committed the worst atrocities of all.
We profit by the general confusion and good humour to slip into a hotel reserved for officers and indulge in a luxurious repast.
It is also by dint of cunning and astuteness that Reymond, Maxence and myself manage to find lodging with some honest people who place at our disposal two bedrooms and a dressing-room. Only the previous week they had boarded a Prussian colonel who daily explained the mathematical reasons which would ensure the triumph of Germany. And then, only two days ago, he galloped off without finishing his demonstration. He was so hurried that he kicked down his bedroom door. He was daily in the habit of locking it himself, but in his excitement he had forgotten where he had put the key ... perhaps even where the lock was! My host points to the broken panels, quite pleased to have such a proof of German disorder and confusion.
Monday, 14th September.