I shall never forget Mouroux. It was just a little square of old houses.
Before the Mairie was placed a collection of bottles from which the
Sales Boches had very properly drunk. French proclamations were
scribbled over with coarse, heavy jests. The women were almost
hysterical with relieved anxiety. The men were still sullen, and, though
they looked well fed, begged for bread. A German knapsack that I had
picked up and left in charge of some villagers was torn to shreds in
fierce hatred when my back was turned.

It was very lonely there in the sun. We had outstripped the
advance-guard by mistake and were relieved when it came up.

We made prisoner of a German who had overslept himself because he had
had a bath.

I rushed back with Grimers on my carrier to fetch another bicycle. On my
return my engine suddenly produced an unearthly metallic noise. It was
only an aeroplane coming down just over my head.

In the late afternoon we marched into Coulommiers. The people crowded
into the streets and cheered us. The girls, with tears in their eyes,
handed us flowers.

Three of us went to the Mairie. The Maire, a courtly little fellow in
top-hat and frock-coat, welcomed us in charming terms. Two fat old women
rushed up to us and besought us to allow them to do something for us. We
set one to make us tea, and the other to bring us hot water and soap.

A small girl of about eight brought me her kitten and wanted to give it
me. I explained to her that it would not be very comfortable tied with