Page:Wounded Souls.djvu/156

 their evening meal over a charcoal stove, as though on one of the roads of war, while a crowd of Belgians roared with laughter at their by-play with clasp-knives, leaden spoons, and dixies. One of them was a cockney humourist—his type was always to be found in any group of English soldiers—and was performing a pantomime for the edification of the onlookers, and his own pleasure.

A woman standing on the edge of this scene touched me on the sleeve.

"Are you going forward to the Rhine, mon lieutenant?"

I told her "yes," and that I should soon be among the Germans.

She gave a little tug to my sleeve, and spoke in a kind of coaxing whisper.

"Be cruel to them, mon lieutenant! Be hard and ruthless. Make them suffer as we have suffered. Tread on their necks, so that they squeal. Soyez cruel."

Her face and part of her figure were in the glow from the charcoal fire of the transport men, and I saw that she was a little woman, neatly dressed, with a thin, gentle, rather worn-looking face. Those words, "Soyez cruel!" gave me a moment's shock, especially because of the soft, wheedling tone of her voice.

"What would you do," I asked in a laughing way, "if you were in my place?"

"I dream at nights of what I would like to do. There are so many things I would like to do, for vengeance. I think all German women should be killed, to stop them breeding. That is one thing."

"And the next?" I asked.

"It would be well to kill all German babies. Perhaps the good God will do it in His infinite wisdom."

"You are religious, madam?"

"We had only our prayers," she said, with piety.

A band of dancing people bore down upon us and swept