Leaving at half past 8, each of us got a trinkbecher[1] of coffee. So far we are satisfied with the French. They treat us decently and pass us water in the coaches, and girls wave and even blow kisses. Maybe they mistake us for Italians, as we still wear Italian uniforms.
We admire the French women. They are jolly and dress tastefully. They care about fashion. As it is everywhere, anyone with straight legs was drafted from age 16 to 60. Women have replaced men on the railroads and trams, and everywhere.
Kilometer 482—Lozane. All meadows around the track with grazing cattle. It was noticeable that we were moving northward. The harvest hadn't even begun there whereas down south, it was over. Cold, cloudy day. The guard was replaced again by Battalion 85.
Kilometer 380—Taras-le-Mars. We got coffee from the Red Cross.
Kilometer 349—Moulins. A large station at quarter to four. Hundreds of cars with corn, huge storage halls.
Kilometer 314—St. Pierre. We meet a Red Cross train carrying the injured. Half past six—Sangaze. Guards replaced again—Battalion 123. Black coffee. It's comic how at each stop we jump off the coaches and sturm[2] the toilets.
102
