Their battalion had been put on a train in Paris and sent off to the east. They had taken along the things they had looted in France, French wine and French autos.

From Minsk they had marched to the front, leaving their autos behind for lack of gasoline. Drunk with German victories and French wine, they moved along the dusty roads of White Russia with the sleeves of their uniforms rolled up and their collars unbuttoned. Their helmets hung on their belts; their bare, sweaty heads were dried by the gentle sun and warm breeze of foreign Russia. There was still some wine swashing in their flasks, and the soldiers walked boldly down the streets of burned Soviet villages and loudly sang a boastful army song about a pretty French girl, Jeanne, and how she had never seen real soldiers or known real men until the Germans came to Paris.