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By Root 1918 0

staff had set off at a canter, spurring on their horses for fear of being by-passed and finding the Prussians already at Altkirch. General Bourgain-Desfeuilles, foreseeing a tough stretch ahead, had taken the precaution of going through Mulhouse in order to have a copious meal, grumbling at the rush. Mulhouse was in despair as the officers passed through – when news of the retreat spread the inhabitants ran out into the streets protesting at the sudden departure of the troops they had so desperately implored to come. Were they being abandoned, then? Was all the fabulous loot piled up in the station going to be left for the enemy? Was their city itself to be nothing but a conquered city by nightfall? All along the country roads the inhabitants of villages and isolated houses had also taken up positions on their doorsteps in astonishment and alarm. What! Were those same regiments they had seen only yesterday marching to battle, now falling back and running away without fighting? The officers were sullen and spurred on their horses, refusing to answer questions, as though ill-luck were galloping at their heels. Was it true, then, that the Prussians had crushed the army and were pouring into France from all sides like a river in spate that had burst its banks? Already the population was giving way to mounting panic, and in the still air thought it could hear the distant thunder of invasion, rumbling louder and louder every minute, and already carts were being loaded with chattels, houses were emptying, families were threading their way along the lanes where terror was running riot.

In the confusion of the retreat, along the Rhône–Rhine canal, the 106th had to halt after only one kilometre. Marching orders, badly expressed and even more badly carried out, had jammed the whole 2nd division at this point, and the way through was so narrow, scarcely five metres wide, that the procession looked like going on for ever.

Two hours later the 106th was still waiting at a standstill, facing the endless stream going on ahead of them. Standing in the blazing sun, pack on back and rifle held at ease, the men finally demonstrated their impatience.

‘We’re the rearguard, I suppose,’ said Loubet in his sarcastic voice.

Chouteau blew his top:

‘They’re roasting us here just to show they don’t care a fuck about us. We were here first, we should have gone through.’

On the other side of the canal, over the great fertile plain with its flat roads between hopfields and ripe corn, they could now see the movement of the retreating troops carrying out yesterday’s march in the opposite direction, and scornful laughs ran along, a universal burst of furious sneering:

‘Here we go galloping along!’ Chouteau went on. ‘Well, it’s a rum idea, this march against the foe they’ve been stuffing into our ears since the other morning… No really, it’s too funny by half, we get here and then fuck off again with no time even to swallow our stew!’

The exasperated laughter got louder, and Maurice, who was near Chouteau, agreed with him. As they had been stuck there like posts for two hours why hadn’t they been allowed to cook their stew and swallow it in peace? Hunger was catching up on them, and they were in a sullen rage about their saucepan emptied out too soon, for they didn’t see the necessity for this haste that seemed silly and cowardly to them. Like a lot of hares they were, really!

At that moment Lieutenant Rochas swore at Sergeant Sapin, blaming him for the bad behaviour of his men. The noise brought up Captain Beaudoin.

Silence in the ranks!

Jean said nothing. A veteran of the Italian wars and broken in to discipline, he studied Maurice who appeared to be enjoying Chouteau’s bursts of bloody-minded sneering, and was astonished that a real gent like him, a fellow who had had such good schooling, could agree with things that ought not to be said, even if they might be true. If every soldier took it into his head to criticize the officers and give his opinion they wouldn’t get very far, and that was a fact.

At last, after yet another hour’s wait, the