THE CATHEDRAL
The notice had reached us at seven o'clock in the morning. At five o'clock in the afternoon we arrived at St. Menehould, of which we saw nothing but the station. At six we were in the train.
Just as it was getting under way—I was looking through the ventilator—there was a sudden panic on the platform. Employees and foremen began to run, flinging their arms up. What was it? There was a noise, I understood. A Taube was flying over the station. The men crowded to the doors. We had no time to distinguish anything. A tremendous explosion flung us on top of each other, and a certain number fell on to the floor of the waggon.
A bomb had just fallen thirty yards from us. There were instant yells and a torrent of smoke. A waggon was pulverised on one of the adjacent lines. Three men killed, and six wounded we heard. And two hours' delay for us.
So we did not get away till night. The beginning of our misfortunes! We had not been going twenty minutes, when we pulled up with a violent jerk. An avalanche of rifles and packs—contusions and confusion.
The lantern was shivered, and went out. A chorus of imprecations exploded in the darkness. We struck some matches. No serious damage done. Prunelle's face was bleeding, and his glasses were broken. He had a splinter of glass at the edge of his eyelashes. He was lucky. He might have lost an eye.
And outside? We leant out. Shadows were swarming on the ballast, some limping, others frightened. Bouchut had been sent for and came up in a fury shouting at the top of his voice. An orderly was standing in front of each waggon inquiring in a surly voice:
"Any casualties here?"
A commonplace stoppage. The tail carriages had turned over, and the last one which contained among other things the officers' equipments was reduced to atoms, to the great glee of the men.