stopped at six
paces, gave me a military salute, and pointed to the white brassard of
the Red Cross they wore on their arms.

"Where do you come from?" I asked. "What are you doing here?"

"We come from that farm, where we have been for two days caring for
two of our wounded. We didn't see any French soldier or officer. We
don't know what to do. We want to go to the village down there," they
pointed out a hamlet two or three kilometers off, "where we left a
doctor and one hundred and fifty-three wounded."

"Very good," I said, "follow me."

Obediently the two orderlies marched behind me to the village they had
pointed out. It was situated on the national highway to Soissons. In
this place were a hundred and fifty or two hundred Germans, quartered
in four or five houses under the guard of a company of Zouaves who had
just arrived a half hour previously. The German major, informed of my
arrival, stood in front of the main building. He wore gold-rimmed
spectacles, his face was the type the Alsatian Hansi loves to show in
his books. He spoke very good French and even pretended that he did
not want to answer the questions I asked him in his own language.

"Show me your wounded," I ordered.

He immediately conducted me everywhere, explaining the nature of each
wound. Some were suffering and groaning; others, seeing the uniform of
a French officer, tried to raise themselves up and salute.

The German major asked:

"When they come to evacuate the wounded to Meaux or some other place,
do you suppose I shall be allowed to accompany them and continue my
treatment?"

"I don't know," I replied, "but there is one thing you can be sure of.
My superiors will act in accordance with the demands of humanity. Now
you follow me."

I led him outside to the doorstep. I pointed out the poor homes of the
village, ruined, reduced to dust. Everywhere were the dwellings of the
entire region, with their furniture lying in the mud and ashes.

"Look at that," I said to him. "That is what your men have done."

The German officer turned very pale, then very red. He answered:

"It's sad, but it is war."

"No," I replied, "it isn't war. It's pure barbarism and it's
abominable."

Some few paces away from us French Zouaves were sitting beside some
wounded Germans. In their own glasses they poured out a little cordial
for their prisoners; they gave them their last cigarettes. One of them
had even taken, as if he were his brother, the hea