I happened to be at Voulangis when the territorials left—­quite unexpectedly, as usual.  They never get much notice of a releve.

We were sitting in the garden at tea when the assemblage general was sounded, and the order read to march at four next morning.

You never saw such a bustle,—­such a cleaning of boots, such a packing of sacks, such a getting together of the officers’ canteens—­ orderlies getting about quickly, and trying to give demonstrations of “efficiency” (how I detest the very word!), and such a rounding up of last things for the commissary department, including a mobilization of Brie cheese (this is its home), and such a pulling into position of cannon—­all the inevitable activity of a regiment preparing to take the road, after a two months’ cantonnement, in absolute ignorance of the direction they were to take, or their destination.

The last thing I saw that night was-the light of their lanterns, and the last thing I heard was the march of their hob-nailed boots.  The first thing I heard in the morning, just as day broke, was the neighing of the horses, and the subdued voices of the men as the teams were harnessed.

We had all agreed to get up to see them start.  It seemed the least we could do.  So, well wrapped up in our big coats, against the chill of four o’clock, we went to the little square in front of the church, from which they were to start, and where the long line of grey cannon, grey ammunition, camions, grey commissary wagons were ready, and the men, sac au dos, already climbing into place—­one mounted on each team of four horses, three on each gun-carriage, facing the horses, with three behind, with their backs to the team.  The horses of the officers were waiting in front of the little inn opposite, from which the officers emerged one by one, mounted and rode to a place in front of the church.  We were a little group of about twenty women and children standing on one side of the square, and a dead silence hung over the scene.  The men, even, spoke in whispers.

The commander, in front of his staff, ran his eyes slowly over the line, until a sous-officier approached, saluted, and announced, “All ready,” when the commander rode to the head of the line, raised one hand above his head, and with it made a sharp forward gesture—­the unspoken order “en avant”—­and backed his horse, and the long grey line began to move slowly towards the Foret de Crecy, the officers falling into place as it passed.

Some of the men leaned down to shake hands as they went by, some of the men saluted, not a word was spoken, and the silence was only broken by the tramp of the horses, the straining of the harnesses, and rumble of the wheels.