The carts carrying the quick and the dead rumbled by in a long convoy,
the drooping heads of the soldiers turned neither right nor left for any
greeting with friends.
There was a hugger-mugger of uniforms, of provision carts, and with
ambulances--it was a part of the wreckage and wastage of war; and to
the onlookers, with the exaggeration, unconsciously, of the importance
of the things close at hand and visible, it seemed terrible in its
significance and an ominous reminder of 1870.
Really this was an inevitable part of a serious battle, not necessarily
a retreat from a great disaster.
But more pitiful even than this drift back were scenes which followed.
As I turned back into the town I saw thousands of boys who had been
called to the colors and had been brought up from the country to be sent
forward to second lines of defense.
They were the reservists of the 1914 class, and many of them were
shouting and singing, though here and there a white-faced boy tried to
hide his tears as women from the crowd ran forward to embrace him. These
lads were keeping up their valor by noisy demonstrations; but, having
seen the death carts pass, I could not bear to look into the faces of
those little ones who are following their fathers to the guns.
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