They had not long left the French capital, before Bob realised that he was passing through country which not long before had been the scene of carnage. The train passed slowly along, and was often held up owing to the terrible exigencies of war.
"Do you see that, Nancarrow?" said Pringle, pointing to a field in which wheat had been planted, but which had never been garnered. Indeed it would be impossible to garner it. It had been trampled under foot by tens of thousands of hurrying feet.
Here and there they saw trenches that had been hastily dug, and then discarded when they were no longer of use. Repeatedly they saw the ruins of villages, some of which had been wantonly, barbarously destroyed by the invading foe.
It was a warm day, windless and clear, and as the train stopped at roadside stations or drew up at sidings, they could not help being impressed by the peace which seemed to reign. The birds still sang on the tree branches, cattle still lowed in the fields, and peasants still worked on their little farms.
"If one closed one's eyes, it would seem as though war were impossible," said Bob.
"Yes, but you'd be quickly undeceived when you opened them," replied Pringle. "Look at those trees!" and he pointed to a small wood, where charred trunks of trees, splintered branches, and blackened leaves told their story.
"I expect some of our men were there, or the Germans thought they were," said Pringle, "and so they----" and he shrugged his shoulders significantly.
"Perhaps some poor beggars may be lying wounded around there even yet," suggested Bob.
"I don't think so. As far as I can learn, the whole line has been carefully searched, and every man that could be saved has been. But, by God, the thought of it is awful!"
"Yes, no one knows what may have happened in a firing-line hundreds of miles long. It must have been hell."
What struck them forcibly, however, was the cheerfulness of the peasantry. At the little roadside stations the people crowded around the trains and cheered the soldiers.
"Yes, monsieur," said one old farmer, "my little house was destroyed--burnt to the ground. I had lived there ever since I was married, and all my children were born there. Two of them, _grace à Dieu_, are at the front now. Where do we live? Ah, monsieur, they spared a barn, and we are there now. It's not so bad as it might be, and we are cheerful."