I felt the same revolt against the effect of war when he told me of the taking and losing of Charleroi and set it down as the most “grotesque” sight he had ever seen.  “Grotesque” simply made me shudder, when he went on to say that even there, in the narrow streets, the Germans pushed on in “close order,” and that the French mitrailleuses, which swept the street that he saw, made such havoc in their ranks that the air was so full of flying heads and arms and legs, of boots, and helmets, swords, and guns that it did not seem as if it could be real—­“it looked like some burlesque”; and that even one of the gunners turned ill and said to his commander, who stood beside him:  “For the love of God, colonel, shall I go on?” and the colonel, with folded arms, replied:  “Fire away.”

Perhaps it is lucky, since war is, that men can be like that.  When they cannot, what then?  But it was too terrible for me, and I changed the subject by asking him if it were true that the Germans deliberately fired on the Red Cross.  He instantly became grave and prudent.

“Oh, well,” he said, “I would not like to go on oath.  We have had our field ambulance destroyed.  But you know the Germans are often bad marksmen.  They’ve got an awful lot of ammunition.  They fire it all over the place.  They are bound to hit something.  If we screen our hospital behind a building and a shell comes over and blows us up, how can we swear the shell was aimed at us?”

Just here the regiment came over the hill, and I retreated inside the gate where I had pails of water ready for them to drink.  They were a sorry-looking lot.  It was a hot day.  They were covered with dirt, and you know the ill-fitting uniform of the French common soldier would disfigure into trampdom the best-looking man in the world.

The barricade was still across the road.  With their packs on their backs, their tin dippers in their hands for the drink they so needed, perspiring in their heavy coats, they crawled, line after line, under the barrier until an officer rode down and called sharply:—­

“Halt!”

The line came to a standstill.

“What’s that thing?” asked the officer sternly.

I replied that obviously it was a barricade.

“Who put it there?” he asked peremptorily, as if I were to blame.

I told him that the English did.

“When?”

I felt as if I were being rather severely cross-examined, but I answered as civilly as I could, “The night before the battle.”

He looked at me for the first time—­and softened his tone a bit—­my white hair and beastly accent, I suppose—­as he asked: 

“What is it for?”

I told him it was to prevent a detachment of Uhlans from coming up the hill.  He hesitated a moment; then asked if it served any purpose now.  I might have told him that the Uhlans were still here, but I didn’t, I simply said that I did not know that it did.  “Cut it down!” he ordered, and in a moment it was cut on one end and swung round against the bank and the regiment marched on.