The night becomes black and corpses are no longer visible. But they are always there, at the bottom of the ditches, on the slopes at the very edge of the road. We realize their presence even in the dark. By shielding the eyes and peering hard, it is possible to see the eerie heaps which have lost all resemblance to that of which they are made. Beyond all, one can smell them; the peculiar, indescribable stench is heavy in the still evening air. The slowly moving breeze passing over those bodies fills our noses and throats with the odour. It makes us shudder instinctively, fearful lest that welter of putrefaction should be communicated from them to us. Not a word in the ranks; nothing but the regular tramp, tramp, before and behind me; occasionally someone coughs, a little dryly, or a man spits. That is all. It must be cold, yet my head and hands are burning, and my will struggles to subdue an uncontrollable inclination to turn to my right where the cool waters of the Aire, flowing by the roadside, are betrayed by the stagnant pools under the trees. An unexpected halt! The men bump their noses against the packs of the file in front. Confusion and much swearing. Then quick commands: "Quartermasters prepare rations for distribution." It is the best of all signs. The day's march is ended. Yet for an hour we are kept waiting on the road. The stench is worse than ever. There are dead horses somewhere near here. _Deuxnoux-devant-Beauzée._ We pass in turn before the ration-carts. By the light of swinging lanterns I catch a glimpse of a bearded face, the blade of a butcher's knife, at the end of a bare forearm, quarters of meat, and the twinkling buttons of a greatcoat. The lantern dances on its way; nothing remains but confused, restless forms. Very soon, however, fires are leaping and glowing in the roadway outside the houses. The cooks are bending over them, their weather-hardened, highly coloured faces thrown into relief, while the gigantic shadows they cast flit along the walls. We mess in the house of a farmer's wife whose husband is on service. This time last night she was waiting on German officers. She showed us a plate containing the remains of some pickled cabbage, and exclaims: "See, messieurs, they left such a lot behind them!" She soon gets to work, and, propping a loaf against her ample bosom, cuts off thick slices of new bread (new bread, mark you!). In another moment our glasses are merry with cider brought from the cellar in a stone jug at least two feet high. "But are you quite sure," she asks, "that they won't return?" I reply to her in a fashion that pleases her: "Madam, you can bet your own child's cap upon it!" We are well abed when there sounds a heavy knocking on the door of the barn, which my men have already firmly closed. "Pannechon! Pannechon! Come out, _mon vieux_!" Pannechon is my orderly. I hear him emerging from the hay and stumbling over sleepers who do not scruple to tell him what they think of him.