"Have you come here for me to give you a lesson in geography? Find your way there as best you can."
A few paces away a detachment is forming: it is that of the 352nd. There are a hundred of us, and we are started along the road. Dawn appears. An hour and a half's march in silence. The men stagger along drowsily.
We reach Humes, a village five or six kilometres distant from Langres, situated in the valley of the Marne. The houses are low, with thatched roofs. The sergeant calls a halt in one of the streets.
Shortly we hear a commanding voice say—
"Second section, muster!"
Men issue from a shed near by, elbowing one another, some with and others without arms: this is the second section. They fall into line, form fours, and march off to drill, to the repeated call of one, two, one, two!
"Suppose we try to find the post-office?" says Verrier.
On reaching it, we each scribble a postcard and return to the street, wondering what to do next.
Before the sputtering tap of a street fountain stands a soldier at his ablutions, with bare breast, his red-trousered legs far apart. Of a sudden he gives a snort. I notice his closely cropped hair and his unshaven chin.
"Reymond!"