It is a chalk country through which we are passing on this torrid
forenoon--"They mend this road with lime, the dirty devils!" The
road has become blinding--a long-drawn cloud of dessicated chalk and
dust that rises high above our columns and powders us as we go.
Faces turn red, and shine as though varnished; some of the
full-blooded ones might be plastered with vaseline. Cheeks and
foreheads are coated with a rusty paste which agglutinates and
cracks. Feet lose their dubious likeness to feet and might have
paddled in a mason's mortar-trough. Haversacks and rifles are
powdered in white, and our legion leaves to left and right a long
milky track on the bordering grass. And to crown all--"To the right!
A convoy!"

We bear to the right, hurriedly, and not without bumpings. The
convoy of lorries, a long chain of foursquare and huge projectiles,
rolling up with diabolical din, hurls itself along the road. Curse
it! One after another, they gather up the thick carpet of white
powder that upholsters the ground and send it broadcast over our
shoulders! Now we are garbed in a stuff of light gray and our faces
are pallid masks, thickest on the eyebrows and mustaches, on beards,
and the cracks of wrinkles. Though still ourselves, we look like
strange old men.

"When we're old buffers, we shall be as ugly as this," says Tirette.

"Tu craches blanc," declares Biquet. [note 1]

When a halt puts us out of action, you might take us for rows of
plaster statues, with some dirty indications of humanity showing