At last the inn seems to have been cleared of all eatables, drinkables and tobacco. The soldiers begin to be tired of the game, they are surfeited, their pockets are crammed with cigars. The girls have almost broken their arms throwing gifts until, hot and untidy, they struggle back into their jackets.
Little by little the people grow quiet. Without variation the orchestra, a veritable instrument of torture, continues its everlasting grind, soulless, imperturbable.
Then on the platform young girls and women appear carrying baskets and escorted by well-dressed men. There sandwiches, fruits, chocolate, tobacco, cigarettes, bottles of lemonade are piled up. Other women follow with cups and enormous jugs of coffee, glasses and jugs of beer, and large juicy plum tarts. The distribution is renewed; it is chiefly intended for the wounded Germans who have stayed in the train. The guards will not let the women approach the wounded French, who have no right to kindly treatment. The women, moreover, cannot bear to hear the name “Franzosen” pronounced. They turn their backs on them, filled with disgust for their contemptible enemies.
In some places the soldiers give themselves up to shameful pillage, emptying the baskets, and the young girls emerge, panting and dishevelled, from a circle which has surrounded them. Disputes take place among the Marines.
Absent-mindedly a “Yungfrau” approaches our compartment, a smile on her lips, a pitying look in her eye, for she has not recognised in these unfortunate men in their shirt sleeves the enemies of her race. Suddenly, while one of us leans out of the window to seize the proffered sandwich, she sees the belt of his red trousers. Taking a step backwards, frightened, indignant, furious, with a voice full of hate, she cries: “Franzosen.” Angrily she turns away; but a German soldier standing on the platform with his arm in a sling has noticed the incident; he has recognised one of my companions as his neighbour in hospital. Passing by, he says in a friendly manner: “Guten Tag, Emile” (Good day). He goes up to the young girl and expresses his indignation in no unmeasured terms. She protests, turns red, becomes embarrassed, then, obediently retracing her steps, holds out her basket, avoiding our eyes. With his hands full, the German soldier distributes food and dainties to us, while the young lady in dulcet but artful tones lightly gives expression to feelings of humanity with a sincerity that makes us smile. “We are all men, after all.” (That was also the declaration of the German socialists before the war; we shall doubtless soon hear it again.)
From that time forth this soldier did not forget to recommend us to the care of the distributors, who dared not refuse for fear of hurting one of their own wounded men. He himself came from time to time to see that we wanted for nothing, and to leave us some of the food and cigarettes he had received and did not know what to do with.
We were doubtless the only French of all the convoy who did not suffer from hunger during the journey.
The day had been perfect for them. The Boches swam in a sea of happiness! They are “Satt”—satiated with beer, cakes, sweets, saturated with joy, excitement and the sounds of music; they are full of their Germany and their Kaiser; they have seen their forces-of-war pass by, and the weakness of their enemy has been established in a manner evident to their eyes!
What a splendid day! “Gott sei Dank.”
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