_Marats-la-Grande._ We do not pass through the village. Some mounted
batteries are passing and scaling the sloping fields towards the road.
The riders are shouting and whipping their horses, already straining
at the collar. Poor beasts! So thin that one can count their ribs,
sides chafed raw by the harness, heads hanging, they strain and strain
until their laboured breathing is audible, while their large bleared
eyes speak eloquently of their sufferings.
A grave; two posts have been tied to form a cross! On the horizontal
one a deep notch has been made with a knife, revealing the white heart
of the wood. Someone has written in pencil the name of the soldier
whose body is lying in the earth, his uniform for his shroud. The
number of his regiment, his company and the date of his death, the 9th
of September, are also inscribed. Four days! Only four days ago that
decomposing something lying beneath the mound of earth was a man in the
full flood of life, hoping, perhaps, soon to be reunited to the dear
ones waiting for him. Four days!... His parents would not have heard
yet.
More graves. They are not laid out in any particular order, or even in
groups. At irregular intervals, they line the road we are following,
which is no more than a trampled-down track over fresh grass between
trees in leaf. Everywhere one can see these sad little crosses, on
almost all of which a red cap hangs. Without halting, the men read
aloud the inscriptions. The 8th of September, the 9th of September, the
10th of September....
And here is one which is not marked with the little cross of branches.
A stake has been simply driven into the ground, bearing a burnt-in
inscription to tell passersby the name of the dead man; on the
newly-turned earth some white stones have been arranged in the form
of a cross--they seem to protect him who lies there better and more
intimately.
Hastily-made graves, turned out with small trenching tools, how I
wish you were much deeper! Your lines suggest the shape of the body
you hide from our eyes. The rain must have soaked you these last days
and nights! But at least calm and peace are with you. The enemy is far
away, never to return. Guard well, then, your poor dead, until the day
dawns when the old men and women shall come to demand of you the bodies
of their loved ones!
We march onwards a few minutes longer and reach a bare plain studded
with shell-craters. The sun is sinking, the rays of its golden light
striking obliquely. Mutilated horses are lying about, their stiff legs
crossed or thrust up towards the sky.