In the forenoon a body of us were marched downstream to an enormous sugar refinery where we obtained baths, hot and good.
The sugar refinery seemed well appointed. The beet is cleaned and shredded by machinery and, after the goodness is taken out, the refuse, like squeezed and chopped up macaroni, is taken off to the farms to make ensilage. A peculiar sickly smell hangs around. The heat making me very thirsty, I had some beer at the nearest cafe, and begorrah, it tasted the same as the “schmell” of the sugar-beet. Proving, bedad, that they make the beer out of it.
A boy with whom I chatted told me that although he spoke some French, his natural language was Walloon – also that the Meuse was very high and practically in flood.
Walk March 