"Nous avons 125 blesses ici, cela les fait tant de
plaisir d'avoir des nouvelles" ("We have 125 wounded here, and oh! how
they love to have the latest news").
In addition to levying a toll on printed matter, he casts a covetous and
meaning glance on any fruit or chocolate that may be visible. Before the
train is out of the station, you can see the once-busy and in his own
opinion all-important railway official vanishing down the road to carry
his spoils to his suffering comrades. Railway travelling is indeed
expensive in France. No matter what time of day or night, wet or fine,
the trains are met at each station by devoted women who extract
contributions for the Red Cross funds from the pockets of willing
givers. It is only fair to state, however, that in most instances the
station-master gets there first.
From the time we left Revigny until we had passed into the Champagne
country, upon the return journey from Verdun, we no longer saw a green
tree or a blade of green grass; we were now indeed upon the "White Road
which leads into Verdun." Owing to an exceptionally trying and dry
summer the roads are thick with white dust. The continual passing of the
_camions_, the splendid transport-wagons of the French Army, carrying
either food, munitions, or troops, has stirred up the dust and coated
the fields, trees, and hedges with a thick layer of white. It is almost
as painful to the eyes as the snow-fields of the Alps.
I saw one horse that looked exactly like a plaster statuette.
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