peating the triumph of Sedan, whose
anniversary they were going to celebrate in a few days! They were going
to enter Paris; it was only a matter of a week. Paris! Great shops
filled with luxurious things, famous restaurants, women, champagne,
money. . . . And the men, flattered that their commanders were stooping
to chat with them, forgot fatigue and hunger, reviving like the throngs
of the Crusade before the image of Jerusalem. "Nach Paris!" The joyous
shout circulated from the head to the tail of the marching columns. "To
Paris! To Paris!"

The scarcity of their food supply was here supplemented by the products
of a country rich in wines. When sacking houses they rarely found
eatables, but invariably a wine cellar. The humble German, the perpetual
beer drinker, who had always looked upon wine as a privilege of the
rich, could now open up casks with blows from his weapons, even bathing
his feet in the stream of precious liquid. Every battalion left as a
souvenir of its passing a wake of empty bottles; a halt in camp sowed
the land with glass cylinders. The regimental trucks, unable to renew
their stores of provisions, were accustomed to seize the wine in all the
towns. The soldier, lacking bread, would receive alcohol. . . .

This donation was always accompanied by the good counsels of the
officers--War is war; no pity toward our adversaries who do not deserve
it. The French were shooting their prisoners, and their women were
putting out the eyes of the wounded. Every dwelling was a den of traps.
The simple-hearted and innocent German entering therein was going to
certain death. The beds were made over subterranean caves, the wardrobes
were make-believe doors, in every corner was lurking an assassin. This
traitorous nation, which was arranging its ground like the scenario of
a melodrama, would have to be chastised. The municipal officers,
the priests, the schoolmasters were directing and protecting the
sharpshooters.

Desnoyers was shocked at the indifference with which these men were
stalking around the burning village. They did not appear to see the fire
and destruction; it was just an ordinary spectacle, not worth looking
at. Ever since they had crossed the frontier, smoldering and blasted
villages, fired by the advance guard, had marked their halting places on
Belgian and French soil.

When entering Villeblanche the automobile had to lower its speed. Burned
walls were bulging out over the street and half-charre