Three hours’ rest, and then _again_ forward! At noon, a farm. _Halt!_
Georges was one of the three who went forward, dodging from wall to
wall, to reconnoiter. There seemed to be some secret hidden there—the
roof was blown off, the windows smashed, devastation everywhere
about—but it might still conceal some desperate foe. As he approached
the closed door, he saw a stain on the stone step, where a little dark
stream of something had dried. He pushed open the door—butchery! More
than two hundred Germans who had taken refuge there had found appalling
death when two howitzer shells had converted them into an incredible
mass of mere bleeding flesh. No fear now need any Frenchman have of
those grim Germans—save only the fear of infection. Georges flung back
the door and fled.
Could he find worse horrors? Let him tell.
“On Friday, after we had been relieved, we were held in reserve in the
rear, and detailed to pick up the German deserters and waifs that were
hiding in the woods all over the country. They were a sorry enough
lot, frightened to death at first, when they threw up their hands at
sight of us, but glad enough to be made prisoners and not have to work,
when they found they were not going to be killed. After the wanton
destruction of innocent villages we had seen—they had even destroyed
the fire engines—it was pretty hard to refrain from knocking these
brutes down with the butts of our rifles. We heard many stories of the
atrocities they had committed in their baffled rage, but the one thing
I saw was enough for me.
“We were marching through a little wood in the Department of the
Marne—somewhere between Posesse and Givry, it was, I think. The
company ahead suddenly began to slow up and halt—they were pointing at
something, but the officers cried: ‘Go on! _Go on!_’ Of course we were
curious to know what it was they were looking at, and we halted, too.
Well, our officers couldn’t hold us—or they didn’t try to. Some of us
ran up through the trees on the right-hand side of the road to look
closer.
“Eight French soldiers, m’sieur, with ropes round their necks, hanging
to the limbs of the trees! I was right close to them. I saw them
plainly. I know. They were riddled with bullet holes. And in among
them, m’sieur, was hanging the body of a little girl. About twelve
years old, I should say. _She_ was shot, too. She was so pretty.... The
officers called us back. There was no time to cut them down, even; we
were hurrying along to keep in touch with the advance.
“Yes, m’sieur, we all saw it. Why, there is a man in this very hospital
now who saw it, too. Last week there came a commissioner down here
on purpose to get our affidavit about it, for some report of the
Government.”