There was a very welcome halt for an hour in the town, for the men to
fill their water-bottles and rest.

The men's feet were beginning to suffer terribly, for the road along
which they were marching had been cobbled--cobbles, not as we know them
in England, but rounded on the surface--cobbles that turned one's
ankles, cobbles that the nails of one's boots slipped on, that were
metallic, that "gave" not the fraction of a millimetre. The hob-nails in
the Subaltern's boots began to press through the soles. To put his feet
to the ground was an agony, and they swelled with the pain and heat. The
bones of them ached with bearing his weight. They longed for air, to be
dangling in some cool, babbling stream. The mental strain of the
morning's action was as nothing compared to the physical pain of the
afternoon. The Colonel, seeing his plight, offered to lend him his
horse, but he thanked him and declined, as there is a sort of grim pride
in "sticking it." The men, too, took an unreasonable objection to seeing
their Officers avail themselves of these lifts. Then the heavens were
kind, and it rained; they turned faces to the clouds and let the drops
fall on their features, unshaven, glazed with the sun, and clammy with
sweat. They took off their hats and extended the palms of their hands.
It was refreshing, invigorating, a tonic.

Somebody had heard the General say that they should have a rest, a real
rest, that night. High hopes filled weary hearts. It got about that they
were to be billeted in that suburb of Landrécies through which they had
passed, Maroilles.