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82 WITH THE GERMAN ARMIES IN THE WEST
the way ; they are what we call in Sweden, Divisional Cavalry,
in contrast to cavalry acting independently. The standard
is furled. Sabres rattle against stirrups and harness. The
horse of one of the troopers, as nervous and thoughtless as
many others of the genus eqims cahallus, frightened by the
lights, begins a wild dance in front of our vehicle. Instead
of leaving the road free, the horse rears up on his hind legs in
front of the car, which cannot stop abruptly. This ended in
a tumble, which sent horse and rider spinning. The former
now seemed to realise in his troubled mind that discretion is
the better part of valour, took a jump across the ditch and
cantered off across fields and meadows. Angry at his adven-
ture, the unseated rider entered upon the pursuit and soon
disappeared in the mist.
It is evidently quite impossible to drive fast. We wriggle
along kilometre after kilometre and constantly fresh swarms
of soldiers seem to rise up out of the fog. It is clearly the
reserves of an army who are on the march. Now the sky
seems to grow lighter in the east, and the grey coats of the
soldiers appear to assume a queer, ashen-grey, colourless
tone. Here is another ammunition column and a string of
motor-wagons belonging to some hospital establishment ; they
look like gigantic boxes with an enormous red cross on a
white background on their sides. There is an infantry battalion
which has bivouacked for the night and is now ready to break
up and take up its prearranged position in the column of
march. A little further on we are stopped by an artillery
detachment, accompanied by its train. Even if the road is
clear of vehicles for a hundred metres or so, we pass isolated
companies of soldiers on foot, orderlies on cycles, despatch
riders and police.
It grows a little lighter and the fog lifts somewhat, but the
columns grow ever denser. An ammunition column has
halted owing to some congestion ahead. The riders have
dismounted and the men on the wagons likewise. They
stand in groups, talking and smoking, with their half-frozen
hands in their breeches’ pockets. All the time the road is
packed with soldiers and we cannot drive faster than they
march.
At last, at half-past six, we arrive at Eclisfontaine, a junction
where several roads unite and where by-roads and paths
debouch on to the main road. Cavalry, riding past at a sharp
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