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By Root 2587 0

flowing in from two directions, all of it moving opposite from the way the Marines were marching. He stared wide-eyed, looked first at the vehicles, small carts and wagons, mostly with two squeaking wheels, some pulled by a mule or a cow. The sounds filled him, the squealing and groaning of the animals and their cargo, every kind of artifact, from clothing to plows, wooden crates stuffed with every piece of the lives these people were trying to preserve. Behind the carts were more animals, a small herd of goats, and then a dozen sheep, strung together in a slow sad parade, pushed along by a little girl who sang as she walked. Temple looked more at the people now, saw many children, dirty faces, some with bare feet, most of them looking back at him, at the Marines and their rifles, the different uniforms that these people had never seen. There were no young men at all, and Temple scolded himself for the thought. No, these people gave up their sons a long time ago. The men he saw were mostly old, the bodies fragile, the eyes filled with desperation. The women were all ages, some as old and frail as their men, some much younger, raw beauty in ragged dresses. But there were no smiles, none of the flirtation that the Marines had become accustomed to. Temple saw no joy on their faces, only hollow eyes that had seen too much of this war, soulless stares of loss and sadness. Some of the old men called out, words the Marines could not understand, but still they responded, trying to offer some kind of comfort. He heard Scarabelli, “Don’t go far! We’ll have you back soon!”

But the talk faded quickly, the Marines becoming numb to it now, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of misery that passed them by. Temple heard a shout from the sergeant, and the march began again, the men keeping to one side of the dusty road, single file now. Temple walked through the intersection, following the man in front of him, saw a sign, long and complicated names and numbers, arrows in all directions, distances measured in that strange “km.” The column still moved to the east, and he tried to pronounce the name on the road sign, the place with the arrow that pointed straight ahead: Château-Thierry.

THEY HAD MARCHED WELL INTO THE NIGHT, WITH ONLY BRIEF stops for rations and rest. As they moved in the darkness, Temple could feel the urgency growing around him, the officers more hushed, the meetings brief. The road was still crowded, more of the civilians, but there were uniforms now, dimly glowing lanterns showing glimpses of the distinctive blue of the French poilus. There were camps as well, small clusters of men, wagons and horses, shadows dancing in the road from half-covered lights. He could see some of the poilus emerging from the shelters, coming out to the road just to watch the Marines moving past, many of them showing freshly dressed wounds. Temple had caught the smell of the aid stations, could glimpse the men in filthy white coats, moving through rows of men spread out on blankets. He had been shocked to see a nurse, and around him, low voices in the column reacted as he did, the sudden awareness that a woman was there, in the midst of this dimly lit horror. But no one had called to her, no crude remarks, the Marines watching instead with hushed reverence as she cared for the suffering poilus who lay scattered around her.

The column stopped again, and the order was passed, another few minutes rest. Temple followed the wave of men away from the roadway, kicked at the soft dirt, a place to sit. There had been little sign of refugees for a long while now. The traffic on the road was mostly soldiers, shuffling past them in grim silence, all moving the opposite direction. Even in the dark, Temple could see the staggering rhythm of the walking wounded, and pairs of stretcher bearers grunting as they passed, enduring the weight of the man suspended between them. There had been ambulances, trucks too big for the narrow road, bumping and jostling the men inside, small cries that had cut into Temple’s brain. With the trucks came the smells, the lumbering