When shall we see white bed-sheets again? Such luxury has turned our heads, and Villers-Cotterets, intact and full of life, in the midst of a scene of ruin and desolation, seems to us the very capital of the world! The dull growl of the cannon is heard away in the distance.
An abundant supply of fresh meat, preserves and wine. En route for the headquarters of the Army Corps, where directions will be given us for joining the regiment.
A long march through the forest. More dead horses and that intolerable stench of decomposing flesh which strikes one brutally full in the face like a lash.
The roar of cannon draws nearer. We halt in a field. A detachment of prisoners passes along the road.
Still the wounded come; in groups of twos, threes and fours they make their way, after a summary dressing of their wounds, in the direction of the ambulance, hobbling along, leaning on sticks or on a comrade's shoulder.
They ask—
"Is it far to Villers-Cotterets?"
"Fifteen kilometres."
"Ah! Là là!"
Amongst them are men of the 352nd. Having met at the depot we recognize one another, and ask—