The evening was already advanced when our Group received instructions to push on to Marville, presumably to camp there.
I recognized the place, for we had passed through Marville on our way to Torgny. At that time it was a pretty little town with flowery gardens and river-side villas surrounded by dahlias. Now, however, the place was deserted. Large carts belonging to the Meuse peasantry were waiting, ready to start, piled high with bedding, boxes, and baskets. In one of them I caught sight of a canary-cage side by side with a perambulator and a cradle. Women, surrounded by children, were sitting on the heterogeneous heap, crying bitterly, while the little ones hid their heads in their skirts. Some dogs, impatient to be off, were nosing uneasily round the wheels of the carts. We asked these poor people where they were going.
"We don't know! They say we've got to go.... And so we're going ... and with babies like these!"
And they questioned us in their turn:
"Which way do you think we'd better go? We don't know!"
Nor did we. Nevertheless, we pointed out a direction.
"Go that way! Over there!"
"Over there" was towards the west.... Oh, what misery!...
We bivouacked on the outskirts of the town. Near-by flowed a river, on the opposite side of which two dead horses were lying in a stubble-field.