A foul smell hung about. We had not been spoilt, as may be imagined, in the way of odours, since the beginning of the campaign. Nothing had come anywhere near this, however. The Bosches had left their nauseous traces when they went. It was the same thing everywhere—a manifestation of their Kultur!
The rare inhabitants who had stayed, not more than a hundred all told, who greeted us on the pavements, had only one expression for them, which they repeated between their cheers:
"Ah, the swine!"
We halted for a short time at the entrance to a square. Kind women brought us wine (goodness knows how they had managed to keep it), and other people took us to their homes with them.
I let myself be persuaded, but soon came back, sickened. The state of filth in which the Huns had left these houses was totally indescribable in polite language. It made me feel extremely ill—the hogs!—but our poilus were more inclined to laugh.
For all that no great crimes seemed to have been committed. One matron holding a little boy of five by the hand was shrieking that one of the brigands had held the barrel of his revolver to his temple. But judging by the round and rosy appearance of the kid, a stupid-looking child, not much harm had been done.
We started off again. Another old dame hobbled after us with a tale of some terrible tragedy. They'd had the cheek to commandeer her donkey, and to make it work all day; the poor animal was simply worn out! They harnessed it to a furniture van! And then in the evening—to end up with—they had shot, skinned, and roasted it!
Judsi thought it all a farce, and laughed in the old woman's face:
"A relation of yours, was it?"
She fell behind, in a fury, calling us good-for-nothings.