Just off the road was a small sandpit.  Three or four waggons—­the horses, frightened by our shells, had run over the steep place into the sand.  Their heads and necks had been forced back into their carcasses, and on top of this mash were the splintered waggons.  I sat for a long time by the well in Chezy and watched the troops go by, caparisoned with spoils.  I hated war.

Just as the sun was setting we toiled out of Chezy on to an upland of cornfields, speckled with grey patches of dead men and reddish-brown patches of dead horses.  One great horse stood out on a little cliff, black against the yellow of the descending sun.  It furiously stank.  Each time I passed it I held my nose, and I was then pretty well used to smells.  The last I saw of it—­it lay grotesquely on its back with four stiff legs sticking straight up like the legs of an overturned table—­it was being buried by a squad of little black men billeted near.  They were cursing richly.  The horse’s revenge in death, perhaps, for its ill-treatment in life.

It was decided to stay the night at Chezy.  The village was crowded, dark, and confusing.  Three of us found the signal office, and made ourselves very comfortable for the night with some fresh straw that we piled all over us.  The roads were for the first time too greasy for night-riding.  The rest slept in a barn near, and did not discover the signal office until dawn.

We awoke, stiff but rested, to a fine warm morning.  It was a quiet day.  We rode with the column along drying roads until noon through peaceful rolling country—­then, as there was nothing doing, Grimers and I rode to the head of the column, and inquiring with care whether our cavalry was comfortably ahead, came to the village of Noroy-sur-Ourcq.  We “scrounged” for food and found an inn.  At first our host, a fat well-to-do old fellow, said the Germans had taken everything, but, when he saw we really were hungry, he produced sardines, bread, butter, sweets, and good red wine.  So we made an excellent meal—­and were not allowed to pay a penny.

He told that the Germans, who appeared to be in great distress, had taken everything in the village, though they had not maltreated any one.  Their horses were dropping with fatigue—­that we knew—­and their officers kept telling their men to hurry up and get quickly on the march.  At this point they were just nine hours in front of us.

Greatly cheered we picked up the Division again at Chouy, and sat deliciously on a grass bank to wait for the others.  Just off the road on the opposite side was a dead German.  Quite a number of men broke their ranks to look curiously at him—­anything to break the tedious, deadening monotony of marching twenty-five miles day after day:  as a major of the Dorsets said to us as we sat there, “It is all right for us, but it’s hell for them!”