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It was an agony for them to be moved, even on the
stretchers. Some of them cried out in fearful anguish, or moaned like
wounded animals, again and again. Those sounds spoiled the music of
the lapping water and the whispering of the willows and the song of
birds. The sight of these tortured boys, made useless in life, took
the color out of the flowers and the beauty out of that vision of the
great cathedral, splendid above the river. Women watched them from the
bridge, straining their eyes as the bodies were carried to the bank. I
think some of them looked for their own men. One of them spoke to me
one day.
"That is what the Germans do to our sons. Bandits! Assassins!"
"Yes. That is war, Madame."
She put a skinny hand on my arm.
"Will it go on forever, this war? Until all the men are killed?"
"Not so long as that, Madame. Some men will be left alive. The very
old and the very young, and the lucky ones, and those behind the
lines."
"The Germans are losing many men, Monsieur?"
"Heaps, Madame.


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