There were no guns; everything was gaiety and brightness. But for the
limping soldiers, my own battered machine, and the ominous grey ships
in the harbour, it might have been a carnival.
In spite of the appearance of the machine it went northeast at an
incredible pace, its dried mud flying off like missiles, through those
French villages, which are so tidy because there is nothing to waste;
where there is just enough and no more--no extra paper, no extra
string, or food, or tin cans, or any of the litter that goes to make
the disorder of a wasteful American town; where paper and string and
tin cans and old boots serve their original purpose and then, in the
course of time, become flower-pots or rag carpets or soup meat, or
heaven knows what; and where, having fulfilled this second destiny,
they go on being useful in feeding chickens, or repairing roads, or
fertilising fields.
For the first time on this journey I encountered difficulty with the
sentries. My Red Cross card had lost its potency. A new rule had gone
out that even a staff car might not carry a woman. Things looked very
serious for a time. But at last we got through.
There were many aviators out that bright day, going to the front,
returning, or merely flying about taking the air. Women walked along
the roads wearing bright-coloured silk aprons.
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