At daybreak we pass through Bras. Before the country cottages are huge piles of manure from which a light steam rises. Cocks are a-crow; but man is still sleeping. We march and still march. Little by little, I become conscious that a rather fevered curiosity is spreading through the ranks. We overtake a regiment of field artillery, drawn out in an interminable file, resting by the wayside. Gunners and drivers are alike asleep, overcome by fatigue, the former sprawled on the gun carriages, mouths wide open; the latter with their noses buried in the manes of their horses. They too sleep, poor beasts, with muzzles drooping and knees bent. We pass by, the heavy, nailed boots of the men echoing loudly on the roadway. But the artillerymen do not hear us; they sleep too soundly for that. We even find it necessary to prod the horses before they will move aside to let us pass. Crossing the Meuse, we encountered immense herds of cattle. They were divided into hundreds corralled at the water's edge in a smooth meadow. The brutes were lying on the brown earth, with their muzzles upraised in an ever-changing chorus of lowing. Cattlemen in red trousers kept placid watch over them. _Vachérauville._ It is broad daylight. We have called a halt on a piece of uncultivated land on the side of a hill. I am still feeling dull and knocked up after the long night passed in the box-like carriage. There are about a thousand of us altogether. The men, having piled arms and thrown themselves down on the ground, are sleeping, too tired even to ask questions. Indeed, the detachment commander himself appears to be ignorant as to our final destination. He is a dear old fellow in spectacles. I can just imagine him by his own fireside, his feet in slippers, poking away and smoking a big pipe. I shall never get used to seeing him on horseback! That nuisance, L ... promoted medical officer, fusses about here and there, his tongue wagging ceaselessly: "What is this water? It's bad! Typhoid! Typhoid!--And where do _you_ come from, young man? Have you any cartridges?--Give that horse something to drink!--This chasseur is ill.--You are ill, my friend!--Yes, yes. You _are_ ill!--Just show me your tongue!--Ah, we must dose you. Yes!--Yes! What, not ill? No? Not ill? More's the pity! They should have taken away his spurs!..." A lamenting voice rings out: "Where's the officer! Where's the officer!" An old woman hastens up, her cap all awry, her hands raised to the skies. "What shall I do? They have taken away the canopy of my well to make a fire. Who is going to indemnify me for it?..." Loss, damage, indemnity; words, alas, we are to hear often enough!