The narrow streets streamed with people--French soldiers and
officers, Lorraine women in the costumes of pageantry, and German
children who cried shrilly: "Amerikanerin, Amerikanerin!"
An English major passed them. They recognised his flawless boots before
they realised his nationality. And, following his, the worst boots in
the world--worn by a couple of sauntering Italian officers, gay in olive
and silver uniform. German men in black slouch hats hurried along
the streets.
It had been arranged that they should eat their meals in a room
overlooking the canal, at the foot of the Cathedral--and there at eleven
o'clock they went, to be a little dashed in spirit by the reappearance
of the Bar-le-Duc crockery.
The same yellow dish carried what seemed the same rationed jam; the
square blocks of meat might have been cooked in the Bar cook-hut, and
brought with them over the desert; two heavy loaves stood as usual on
the wooden table. The French Army ration was the same in every town.
"Mesdames," said the orderly assigned to them, "there are two
sous-officers without who wish to speak with you."
"Let them come in."
Two blue figures appeared in the doorway and saluted. The first brought
a card of invitation from the Commandant Dormans. The second was the
brigadier from the garage with a list of the cars assigned to
the drivers.
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