During the night we have changed direction: instead of continuing towards the east, Gerardmer and the Schlucht, at Laveline we were shunted on to the line of Saint-Dié--Lunéville, across the Vosges. In the distance to the right we hear the roar of the cannon. Raon-l'Etape. All change! It is noon. To the east of the station is a semi-circle of mountains. In the direction of the Donon the cannonade is incessant, though it no longer forms a dull rumble: each shot is distinct from the rest. Of their own accord the men load their rifles. We fall back upon Rambervillers. It appears that things here are not progressing at all well. The 13th Corps, the van of which had reached Schirmeck, is now retreating before enormous forces. We see regiments file past: men and beasts look grimy and thin; there is a feverish look in their eyes, beneath the grey lids. The artillery pass along so exhausted that they totter in their saddles; they have their ammunition-wagons behind them, but no guns. Jokingly one of our men calls after them, not thinking what he is saying-- "Well, well! where are the cannon?" Then they give us black looks and shrug their shoulders. Some one jerks his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the enemy. We insist no further. The men of the 13th Corps, who have been under fire for a fortnight without a break, see from our blue muffs, which still retain their colour, and from our comparative cleanliness, that we have just come on the scene. They call out to us-- "You new ones there have come at the right moment. You'll find plenty to do!" An endless file of inhabitants fleeing before the invasion; they have heaped their goods and furniture on to great carts drawn by oxen, whilst they themselves follow behind, laden with baskets and bundles of all sorts. For a few minutes a young woman walks along abreast of our section. She is carrying a little girl, whilst another hangs on to her dress. On a perambulator, which she pushes along, are piled up clothes and various odds and ends. All these poor folk, seeing us proceeding in the direction of the west, know what it means: their homes abandoned, to be pillaged and burnt by the enemy. Women cry out to us-- "This is the direction you should be taking, not that." And they point eastwards. They even add-- "Are you running away?" The road mounts and descends through woods of fir-trees. A lieutenant of dragoons is sleeping on the side of a copse, his arm linked in his horse's bridle. To the right is a dense mass of smoke, occasionally broken by red glares of light: Baccarat is in flames. A pitiless sun beats down on all this misery and sadness. The cannon roars incessantly. A sound as of thunder is heard, doubtless coming from the fort of Manonvillers. Night falls, and the sky is lit up with flashes of light. An aeroplane darts past, quite close to the ground. Without waiting for the word of command, the whole detachment fires at it.