Rain begins to fall and the dust is converted into mud. The regiment reaches Villers-Cotterets by way of the forest. There are manifest proofs that the German retreat has been a very disorderly one. The ground is strewn with rifles and loaders, outfits, yellow haversacks, and broken bicycles. A few of the inhabitants have already returned to the villages. They are beginning to become more reassured, but they are very hungry. The Germans have emptied the cellars and carried off everything eatable. At ten in the evening we reach Villers-Cotterets, which the enemy occupied for eleven days, and from which he fled this very morning at half-past nine. At eleven our light cavalry entered. The damage is insignificant. We leave Villers-Cotterets on the morning of the 12th. At the exit of the town the road is strewn for three or four kilometres with the most diverse objects, mainly broken bottles. We halt at Coeuvres. A convoy of prisoners. They scarcely utter a word, remain aloof, and seem contented with their lot. They are ignorant of the fact that England is at war with Germany. On Sunday, the 13th, we return to the danger zone. On both sides the cannon is thundering away. North and south, east and west, hayricks and farms are aflame. The regiment quarters at Ressons-le-Long. On the 14th, at four in the morning, alarm. We cross the Aisne on a bridge of boats, near Fontenoy. The church steeple threatens ruin if it falls. We climb a steep hill; the ground is strewn with the dead bodies of French and Germans. Last night a terrible hand-to-hand fight with bayonets took place here, and the road is dotted with pools of blood. Many of the bodies have remained in the position in which they received the death-blow: an officer is kneeling on the ground in the attitude of reloading his rifle. His complexion is waxen, his eyes glazed, and his mouth open. Another lies stretched full length across the path, his arms outspread in the form of a cross. We have to stride over the body. On the top of the hill the company deploys along a footpath in skirmish line. We now discover that the enemy is less than four hundred yards distant. A German battery pours in a raking storm of shells. No holes anywhere about, not the slightest hillock behind which to shelter. I am hurled into the air and fall back on the same spot. Wounded men shriek for help or die in agonies of convulsion; others run to the ambulance. The man by my side is shot dead; from his skull flows a stream of blood which gradually covers the whole of his face. I remove his haversack and use it to protect my own head. Then I fall asleep. When I awake I find that I am surrounded with dead bodies. The few survivors lie there absolutely motionless, for no sooner does a head rise than a bullet hisses past and artillery firing recommences. I pretend to be dead.