I knew
these things because I had been told them; but I shouldn't have known if
I hadn't been told. I shouldn't even have guessed it.
I recall that we traveled at a cup-racing clip along a road that first
wound like a coiling snake and then straightened like a striking snake,
and that always we traveled through dust so thick it made a fog. In
this chalky land of northern France the brittle soil dries out after a
rain very quickly, and turns into a white powder where there are wheels
to churn it up and grit it fine. Here surely there was an abundance of
wheels. We passed many marching men and many lumbering supply trains
which were going our way, and we met many motor ambulances and many
ammunition trucks which were coming back. Always the ambulances were
full and the ammunition wagons were empty. I judge an expert in these
things might by the fullness of the one and the emptiness of the other
gauge the emphasis with which the fight ahead went on. The drivers of
the trucks nearly all wore captured French caps and French uniform
coats, which adornment the marching men invariably regarded as a quaint
jest to be laughed at and cheered for.
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