The scarcity of their food supply was here supplemented by the products of a country rich in wines.  When sacking houses they rarely found eatables, but invariably a wine cellar.  The humble German, the perpetual beer drinker, who had always looked upon wine as a privilege of the rich, could now open up casks with blows from his weapons, even bathing his feet in the stream of precious liquid.  Every battalion left as a souvenir of its passing a wake of empty bottles; a halt in camp sowed the land with glass cylinders.  The regimental trucks, unable to renew their stores of provisions, were accustomed to seize the wine in all the towns.  The soldier, lacking bread, would receive alcohol. . . .

This donation was always accompanied by the good counsels of the officers—­War is war; no pity toward our adversaries who do not deserve it.  The French were shooting their prisoners, and their women were putting out the eyes of the wounded.  Every dwelling was a den of traps.  The simple-hearted and innocent German entering therein was going to certain death.  The beds were made over subterranean caves, the wardrobes were make-believe doors, in every corner was lurking an assassin.  This traitorous nation, which was arranging its ground like the scenario of a melodrama, would have to be chastised.  The municipal officers, the priests, the schoolmasters were directing and protecting the sharpshooters.

Desnoyers was shocked at the indifference with which these men were stalking around the burning village.  They did not appear to see the fire and destruction; it was just an ordinary spectacle, not worth looking at.  Ever since they had crossed the frontier, smoldering and blasted villages, fired by the advance guard, had marked their halting places on Belgian and French soil.

When entering Villeblanche the automobile had to lower its speed.  Burned walls were bulging out over the street and half-charred beams were obstructing the way, obliging the vehicle to zigzag through the smoking rubbish.  The vacant lots were burning like fire pans between the houses still standing, with doors broken, but not yet in flames.  Desnoyers saw within these rectangular spaces partly burned wood, chairs, beds, sewing machines, iron stoves, all the household goods of the well-to-do countryman, being consumed or twisted into shapeless masses.  Sometimes he would spy an arm sticking out of the ruins, beginning to burn like a long wax candle.  No, it could not be possible . . . and then the smell of cooking flesh began to mingle with that of the soot, wood and plaster.

He closed his eyes, not able to look any longer.  He thought for a moment he must be dreaming.  It was unbelievable that such horrors could take place in less than an hour.  Human wickedness at its worst he had supposed incapable of changing the aspect of a village in such a short time.