At Dhuizy the sun came out.

A couple of miles farther on I had a talk with two German
prisoners--R.A.M.C. They were sick of the war. Summed it up thus:

Wir weissen nichts: wir essen nichts: immer laufen, laufen, laufen.

In bright sunshine we pushed on towards Gandeln. On the way we had a
bit of lunch, and I left a pipe behind. As there was nothing doing I
pushed on past the column, waiting for a moment to watch some infantry
draw a large wood, and arrived with the cavalry at Gandeln, a rakish old
town at the bottom of an absurdly steep hill. Huggie passed me with a
message. Returning he told me that the road ahead was pitiably
disgusting.

You must remember that we were hotly pursuing a disorganised foe. In
front the cavalry and horse artillery were harassing them for all they
were worth, and whenever there was an opening our bigger guns would
gallop up for a trifle of blue murder.

From Gandeln the road rises sharply through woods and then runs on high
ground without a vestige of cover for two and a half miles into Chézy.
On this high, open ground our guns caught a German convoy, and we saw
the result.

First there were a few dead and wounded Germans, all muddied. The men
would look curiously at each, and sometimes would laugh. Then at the top
of the hill we came upon some smashed and abandoned waggons. These were
hastily looted. Men piled themselves with helmets, greatcoats, food,
saddlery, until we looked a crowd of dishevelled bandits. The German