The owner stated that this
destruction was not the work of the Germans, but was caused by a
projectile from one of the seventy-fives when repelling the invaders
from the village. And he beamed on the ruin with patriotic pride,
repeating:
"There's a sample of French marksmanship for you! How do you like the
workings of the seventy-fives? . . . What do you think of that
now? . . ."
In spite of the fatigue of the journey, Don Marcelo slept badly, excited
by the thought that his son was not far away.
An hour before daybreak, they left the village, in an automobile, guided
by another official. On both sides of the road, they saw camps and
camps. They left behind the parks of munitions, passed the third line
of troops, and then the second. Thousands and thousands of men were
bivouacking there in the open, improvising as best they could their
habitations. These human ant-hills seemed vaguely to recall, with the
variety of uniforms and races, some of the mighty invasions of history;
but it was not a nation en marche. The exodus of people takes with it
the women and children. Here there were nothing but men, men everywhere.
All kinds of housing ever used by humanity were here utilized, these
military assemblages beginning with the cave. Caverns and quarries were
serving as barracks. Some low huts recalled the American ranch; others,
high and conical, were facsimiles of the gurbi of Africa.
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