We jogged on to Nanteuil, all of us very pleased with ourselves,
particularly the Duke of Wellington's, who were loaded with spoils, and
a billeting officer who, running slap into some Uhlans, had been fired
at all the way from 50 yards' range to 600 and hadn't been hit.

I obtained leave to give a straggler a lift of a couple of miles. He was
embarrassingly grateful. The last few miles was weary work for the men.
Remember they had marched or fought, or more often both, every day since
our quiet night at Landrecies. The road, too, was the very roughest
_pavé_, though I remember well a little forest of bracken and pines we
went through. Being "a would-be literary bloke," I murmured "Scottish";
being tired I forgot it from the moment after I saw it until now.

There was no rest at Nanteuil. I took the Artillery Staff Captain round
the brigades on my carrier, and did not get back until 10. A bit of hot
stew and a post-card from home cheered me. I managed a couple of hours'
sleep.

We turned out about 3, the morning of September 2nd. It was quite dark
and bitterly cold. Very sleepily indeed we rode along an exiguous path
by the side of the cobbles. The sun had risen, but it was still cold
when we rattled into that diabolical city of lost souls, Dammartin.

Nobody spoke as we entered. Indeed there were only a few haggard, ugly
old women, each with a bit of a beard and a large goitre. One came up to
me and chattered at me. Then suddenly she stopped and rushed away, still
gibbering. We asked for a restaurant. A stark, silent old man, with a
goitre, pointed out an _estaminet_. There we found four motionless men,
who looked up at us with expressionless eyes. Chilled, we withdrew into
the street. Silent, melancholy soldiers--the H.Q. of some army or