they're not!"

Reymond has well caught the anxious, troubled features of this intrepid
soldier.

On another slice of beetroot is the droll silhouette of Corporal Davor,
his startled face almost hidden between his shoulders and his arms
akimbo. Davor goes about, at night-time, to stir up those on sentry
duty.

"Keep a watch on the right. Keep a watch on the left."

One source of diversion for us is to assume, whenever he passes, the
indifferent air of one who ridicules the German attacks.

We all figure in the collection. Varlet is a striking type, with his
badger profile immoderately lengthened out by a pipe in the form of a
shell or conch, which appears to be soldered on to his nose.

The beetroot haunts our very dreams. Since we are fated to be tormented
with the beetroot for all eternity, we may as well extract what fun we
can from it.

CHAPTER XI

CHRISTMAS

_Wednesday, 23rd December._

The third day in the front line. The section is on guard at the
telephone. There is a good _gourbi_ or hut provided for each
half-section. Two hours' sentry duty on the Vregny road, along which a
spent ball comes whistling from time to time.

A pleasant diversion; Captain P---- of the Flying Corps arrives from
Paris in a motor-car, and sends for Reymond and myself.

We go down to the car, which has come to a halt below the grotto. Muddy
and slimy, enveloped in multi-coloured wrappings, rifle and cartridges
hanging on to our persons, pipes in mouth and bearded faces, dirty and
grimy, we all the same greet the captain with a very martial military
salute.

He has brought us an enormous hamper of provisions. What luck! We are
now assured of keeping up Christmas-eve. He also brings us letters, and
offers to take back any messages from ourselves. In a dreamy maze of
wonder we gaze upon this astonishing individual, who will be in Paris
to-night, and whose surroundings are something else than fields of
beetroots.

Whilst engaged in conversation, a 150 shell falls a few yards from the
car. It fails to explode.

Captain P---- briefly gives us the news. The war will last longer than
people think; perhaps another five or six months. We ourselves, it
appears, are in a very quiet sector, neither attacked nor attacking,
just mounting guard.

_Thursday, 24th December._

A bright sun, fine and cold weather. The company go down to the grotto,
where they are to sleep to-night. Consequently we shall celebrate our
Christmas-eve "beneath these vaults of stone" as the song goes in _Don
Carlos_.

Here comes the postman. What a heap of parcels! We spend the afternoon
in unpacking them; the war is forgotten; our main preoccupation is
to prepare a dinner to which the squadron will all contribute. Jules
has gone down to Bucy; for once he has received the lieutenant's
permission. His errand is to bring back some wine.

Crouching in a corner, with a bayonet-candlestick by my side, I write
away. The man next to me becomes irritated by my silence and evident
preoccupation.

"What are you writing?" he asks.

"A letter to my servant."

"Well! That's the very last thing I should have expected you to do."

"You fool! I'm giving her instructions to send out my New Year's gifts,
telling her to buy boxes of sweets and chocolates, and giving her the
addresses to which they are to be sent, with my card."

No sooner have I spoken than a whole string of epithets--snob,
_poseur_, dandy--comes down on my devoted head. I reply in very
dignified fashion--

"Oh, indeed! Then you cannot even tolerate ordinary politeness in a
man?"

"Politeness! Just look at yourself in a mirror. You would be better
employed in giving yourself a scrub down."

At eight o'clock the corner of the grotto containing the first squadron
is illuminated with a goodly number of candles.

In the first place, for a successful Christmas-eve celebration we must
have some sourcrout--Alsatian, of course. There are five large tins of
it, along with a knuckle of ham. Then follow all kinds of sausages,
one of which has come from Milan. We speedily dispatch it, at the same
time exhorting our "Latin sister" to join in with us. Carried away by
an irresistible impulse, the squadron takes by assault several _pâtés
de foie gras_. The dessert is most varied: pears, oranges, preserves
in jars, in tubes and in pails, a pudding which flames up when you
apply a match to it, and, last of all, a drink which the cook has most
carefully prepared: coffee with the real odour of coffee.

It is past ten o'clock. The bottles are empty. Every one is very gay
and lively; no one intoxicated.

So pleasant an evening cannot end without music.

The concert begins with our old marching songs, those we used to sing
at drill, or when tramping the dusty roads, to quicken our speed, songs
which we run the risk of forgetting in this accursed war where we
scarcely stir a foot. The words are not invariably to be recommended,
but the familiar swing and rhythm which used to make us forget the
weight of our haversacks, this evening make us forget our burdens of
worry and _ennui_. Most conscientiously do we brawl out the tunes. The
great advantage of the grotto lies in the fact that one can shout as
loud as one pleases.

The lieutenant lifts up the tent canvas with which we have barricaded
our den.

"Well! This is something like! You are doing it! May I come in?"

"Of course, _mon lieutenant_!"

We give him a seat on an empty bag, and the concert recommences.

Singers, with some pretence to a voice, try hard to carry off their
sentimental or grandiloquent ditties, but it is the motley repertoire
of absurdity and ridicule that meets with the success of the evening:
the songs of Montmartre, artistes' refrains, fertile in spicy nonsense.
We mark time by tapping our empty plates with the back of the hand.
The noisy merriment is intensified when we come to the chorus.

With frenzied enthusiasm the squadron shouts out the chorus of Hervé's
_Turcs_--

 _Nous, nous sommes les soldats
 Et nous marchons au pas,
 Plus souvent au trépas...._

And now Charensac comes forward.

"Make way for the Ambassador of Auvergne," barks out Varlet.

"Quite right, I am from Auvergne, and I'm going to dance the _bourrée_."

He dances it, all alone. Some of the audience, making a humming sound
with their hands, the rest whistling or else beating time with cans and
_gamelles_, form an improvised orchestra, half Spanish, half negro. The
dancer's big round face, flanked with little tufts of black whiskers,
lights up. He is both the Auvergnat and his betrothed--advancing,
receding, seeming to escape from himself. When you think he is utterly
exhausted, he still finds it possible to shout out in joyous accents--

"Now, ladies and gentlemen, a collection for 'l'artisse.'"

And he mimics in succession a lion-tamer and a lady walking the tight
rope. The sous rain down into his _képi_.

Thereupon Charensac strikes a lyrical vein. He sings in the _patois_
of Auvergne, and, being in an expansive mood, relates the whole of his
life, from his birth down to the present day, forgetting nothing, not
even his wedding festivities, in the course of which he assures us that
he thrashed his mother-in-law.

Charensac's eloquence is made up of hiccoughs and invocations, songs
and laughter, but we understand all the same. We gather that this giant
of an Auvergnat is a compound of landowner, estate manager, Government
official, and representative of his syndicate at the _Bourse du
Travail_. I find I have had to come to the front to learn that a keen
sense of the rights of property is not incompatible with the spirit of
revolutionary claims.

Charensac stops for a moment, exhausted. Thereupon Reymond, who has had
his eyes fixed on him for some time, leans on his elbow, and from the
corner in which he has been lying, remarks--

"You don't know whom you make me think of, Charensac, always shouting
and stuffing like a huge ogre? I'll tell you; you remind me of old Ubu."

"Who's old Ubu?" asks the other.

"Old Ubu----" begins Reymond.

Startled, I burst out--

"You're not going to tell the first squadron who old Ubu was?"

"Don't you interrupt."

And Reymond explains. In profound silence we listen as he relates how
Ubu was the first man who recommended that eight bullets should be put
into a rifle, because with eight bullets it is possible to kill eight
of the enemy, and you have that number the less to account for. The
thing that delights the first squadron is Ubu's prophetic description
of the modern battle: "... We have the foot-soldiers at the foot of
the hill ... the cavalry behind them to burst upon the jumbled mass of
combatants, and the artillery round by the windmill here to fire upon
them all." The men clap their hands in delight and exclaim knowingly:
"Yes, that's it! The very thing!"

Finally Reymond says that Ubu, like Charensac, was a sort of enormous
giant, with a voice of thunder and an insatiable appetite.

After this, Charensac is never called anything but old Ubu, and as
the sly rascal sees here a new excuse for the satisfaction of his
appetites, he accepts the surname with enthusiasm.

Old Ubu will become popular in the 352nd Regiment, and rightly so. In
warfare it is necessary to evoke the shade of Jarry as frequently as
that of Homer.

Midnight. A procession of magi moves along the galleries. Reymond, a
muffler wrapped turban-wise round his head and majestically draped
in the folds of a poncho, carries the myrrh in a _gamelle_. The tent
pickets serve the purpose of sceptres. Some one walks backwards in
front of the kings, with an electric lamp raised above his head. This
represents the star.

The star guides us back to our _crèche_, where the candles have just
flickered out. Kings and shepherds lie _pêle-mêle_ on the ground, and
the loud snoring soon proves them to be sound asleep.

_Friday, 25th December._

At half-past six the sergeants shout into the grotto--

"Up, 24th, and fully equipped!"

"What's this?... What's the matter?"

"Get up at once; within a quarter of an hour we must be in the fighting
line."

Each man, half-awake, puts on his boots and his puttees and fastens on
his haversack.

Muster in front of the grotto: a frightful din. From Crouy to Vailly
every single battery keeps up an uninterrupted fire on the German
trenches. What an awakening we are giving them for their Christmas!

In a few words the lieutenant explains the day's programme--

"Attacks on the left as soon as the bombardment is over. In front of
Bucy we are commanded not to move. The 24th must hold the support
trenches and keep in readiness 'for any eventuality.'"

The usual thing!

This morning the fighting emplacements are not very dangerous. The
company deploys along the path which skirts the ridge on a level with
the grotto. This is the first line as it was at the beginning of
November; to-day the first line is over five hundred yards forward.

Men belonging to the 23rd relate how the Germans have been singing
hymns all night long. They must have been celebrating their triumphs;
our artillery will bring them all back to their senses. The shells
hammer away at the frozen soil, tearing it up when they explode.
Impossible to hear oneself speak in the midst of the uproar. The sky
is pale blue, gradually assuming a darker tint. The sun is shining
brightly, but it affords no warmth. Each man sends out from his mouth
tiny clouds with every breath.

On the road between the loop-holes there are still to be seen some of
the branch-constructed shelters in which we lodged a couple of months
ago. With the exception of two on sentry duty, we are going to finish
here our interrupted Christmas dreams.

In war-time, unless he is sent on guard or given fatigue duty, the
foot-soldier makes his bed anywhere and anyhow. In case he has
insufficient room he shrinks into as small space as possible, his knees
touching his chin. The cartridge cases of the man behind him dig into
his ribs, and those of the man in front crush his stomach, the hilt of
the bayonet finds a place between two other ribs, whilst the sheath
always seems twisted and bent.... Well, it can't be helped. You just
settle down as well as you can, and you dream, whether awake or asleep.

From time to time some one will growl out, "Its impossible to sleep
with such a noise going on!" and off he falls at once into a deep
slumber.

A joyless day seems in store for us. Shall we be attacked? Or are we to
attack?

A brief distraction takes the form of a young mouse, which comes out of
its hole close to our feet, and is by no means startled by the sight
of six _poilus_ seated around on the floor. Soon it scampers away, but
immediately reappears and fastens its impudent eyes upon us. The roar
of the cannon does not seem to disturb its tiny ears. It is neutral. I
quietly put out my hand, but evidently the gesture is too familiar, for
the mouse re-enters its trench and appears no more.

At two o'clock the 24th are ordered to equip and muster. It appears
that we are to relieve the 23rd in the first line.

News arrives: our attack in the direction of Crouy has succeeded only
partially. The artillery duel is coming to an end. We appreciate the
silence that follows.

We are fixed up in the first line. I spend a couple of hours with
Verrier at the listening post, anything but a pleasant spot. The
Germans are fifty yards away. By risking an eye at the loop-hole we
distinctly make out their wires and the mounds of earth behind which
they are. At night we have to keep our ears alive to the faintest sound
to prevent ourselves from being taken prisoners or massacred by a
patrol party.

An interlude. The Germans are imitating the cries of various animals:
cock and dog, calf and pig.

We ask for news of the Kaiser. They reply--

"He's quite well, thanks. We'll see you again shortly in Paris."

A single though expressive word is our retort.

Again they shout to us from the enemy's trenches--

"A merry Christmas! Send us some wine."

Then they sing the _Marseillaise_!

_Saturday, 26th December._

This morning we found the water frozen in our cans.

The cooks, when bringing in the soup, assure us that the Hindus have
been sent for to make an attack on Crouy. They describe minutely how
they are dressed.

"There is a fellow in the _train de combat_," says "the Fireman," "who
has come across them at Soissons."

Thereupon Jacquard cannot contain himself for joy. Being of a most
optimistic temperament, he sees the Sikhs and Gurkhas coming down
Hill 132 and cutting our invaders' throats. He endeavours to give his
foolish face an expression of ferocity, and explains how the Hindus
attack.

"The beggars glide about noiselessly in the dark, like serpents.
Impossible to hear them coming. Before you are aware they are upon
you, cutting your throat with the big knife they hold between their
teeth...."

"_Bigre!_ Lucky for us they're on our side."

But where has Jacquard, who has never travelled beyond the
neighbourhoods of the Rue de Sentier and Levallois-Perret, obtained
such detailed information about the warlike habits of these distant
peoples?

Meanwhile there is a dead calm; they forget to relieve us. The section
returns to Bucy after forty hours' outpost duty. We quarter in a
half-ruined house which contains scarcely enough room to lie down in.
We sleep in higgledy-piggledy fashion with our comrades, the feet of
one man against the face of another, and vice versa.

_Sunday, 27th December._

No means of returning to the Achains', the company being fixed up
at the other extremity of the village. I knock at the door of the
Ronchards, the brother and sister who showed us hospitality one
afternoon last month. They place at our disposal a large well-warmed
room, where we can all six sleep on an enormous litter of straw.

Mademoiselle Ronchard has not yet recovered from her disappointment at
our not eating her rabbit stew. The stove begins to roar and we come
back to life again.

A detail: we find ourselves covered with fleas. An energetic hunt
commences. It is not without results.

We hear a voice in the street and rush out. The Montagne farm is a mass
of flame, the result of a bombardment which has lasted several hours.
The entire hill is illumined; even from this distance we can hear the
roar of the fire. Beams fall to the ground and flames of fire rise into
the air. Dark silhouettes are seen in the neighbourhood. Without a
word we gaze long at the sinister spectacle. Some one simply remarks--

"The pity of it all!"

We return to the Ronchards.

_Monday, 28th December._

Thaw and rain, creating mud and all the old troubles over again. We
remain indoors at the Ronchards'.

How calm and quiet this evening! There are six of us, feet in slippers,
sitting round the table. Some are reading, others writing by the soft
light of a lamp. Are we the same persons who, only the day before
yesterday, were wallowing in the trench between two walls of mud? Are
we really at war, at the front, with the enemy less than a mile away?
Our friends and relatives, whose letters betray constant anxiety on our
behalf, invariably imagine us in the thick of the fight. If only they
could know, this very moment, that we are in such comfortable quarters,
that there is such an element of peace in our sad surroundings!

The howling wind makes us appreciate by contrast the joy of being under
cover. The distant firing sounds like the noise made by a cart as it
jolts along over the pavings.

_Tuesday, 29th December._

An hour's drill this morning in the shell-ploughed fields, manual
exercise and section school, just to remind us that we are soldiers.
Hair review by the lieutenant in the afternoon. The entire company
must pass through the barber's hands.

Charensac bursts into our room, shouting out, "Good day. How are you,
my young friends?" His voice upsets us completely, and we roughly
inquire whether he has not yet learnt the value of silence after five
months of warfare. Thereupon he explains in his gibberish--

"Don't get angry. I know some one at Crouy who has received a supply of
benedictine and all sorts of good things to eat. I at once thought of
you, for I know my generous little mates will pay for me a drink...."

He is absolved. A bottle of benedictine is worth considering at certain
moments of one's life, and so Charensac starts for Crouy, supplied with
funds, precise instructions, and promises.

In ordinary times the road to Crouy is probably as good as any other
road. But these are not ordinary times. Shells are continually falling,
and a portion of the village of Crouy itself is in the hands of the
enemy. A German machine-gunner, whom we know well, opens fire when any
one passes a certain corner. Charensac, however, disdains the very idea
of peril; he is very brave. The other day, when he was brawling away as
usual, his weary neighbour interrupted him--

"_Ah! là, là_, you wouldn't make such a noise if we were attacking."

Charensac replied, not without an air of dignity, speaking
instinctively of himself in the third person, as though he might have
been Cæsar or Napoleon--

"Don't trouble yourself about Charensac. Just keep by his side when
there is hot work to be done, then no one will ever be in a position to
say that you were afraid."

And, as a matter of fact, Charensac continues to make fine sport of
war, even in the midst of danger. Certainly I have never met his like
before.

Charensac returns in the course of the evening. We all run to meet him.
He tosses off a glass of benedictine, accepts a flannel girdle, two
pocket-handkerchiefs, a bar of chocolate, a camphor sachet for killing
fleas, and then he retires to sleep, shrieking joyfully.

_Wednesday, 30th December._

From noon to four o'clock we clean out the branch trenches, which the
rain has transformed into mud puddles.

_Thursday, 31st December._

Morning drill during a brief spell of sunshine.

Belin comes to dinner.

The year about to begin will be a year of peace and victory, of our
return home.

We do not wait for midnight before going to bed, though we first wish
one another a happy 1915.

_Friday, 1st January, 1915._

Not everybody has followed our example of sobriety in letting in the
new year. This morning some unsteady walking is visible in the streets
of Bucy and Bacchic songs fill the air.

At five the company returns to the grotto.

_Saturday, 2nd January._

A fight against mud, which we scrape away from the road. At noon we
proceed to the first line; for some time past, relieving forces have
been sent out in the daytime. Passing through the branch is a difficult
matter, for we wade in mud up to the knee.

Two hours' duty at the listening post. A calm night. Occasional firing.

_Sunday, 3rd January._

The cooks bring in the soup at ten o'clock and inform us that we shall
be relieved in the evening instead of at noon. Mud and war! Five
more hours of this sort of work! This is what we call, like all good
Pickwickians, "Adding insult to injury, as the parrot said when being
taught to learn English after being taken from his native land."

From four to six, Verrier and I, facing each other as we lean against
the trench walls, await the relief without speaking a word, our eyes
obstinately fixed on our boots.

The return at night along the branches; the mud is thicker and more
plentiful than ever. Frightful oaths and the continual exhortation--

"Gently ahead! We cannot follow you."

Shades glide behind one another, accompanied by the sound of the
_gamelle_ chains. The head of the company has already reached the
grotto whilst the rear is still waiting in the first line till its turn
comes to march away.

The branch opens out on to a very uneven path, scarcely visible through
the wood. In the profound darkness we hear the outbursts of rage and
the curses of the men. The rifles knock against the branches. There
is another path skirting the wood, over exposed ground. A few balls
whistle past, chiefly during reliefs. We have to advance in Indian
file, carefully planting our feet in the steps of the man in front
because of the many holes in the ground. Fifty yards of a steep ascent,
slippery as soap. The falls multiply. Wonderful to relate, there are no
broken bones; not even a sprained ankle.

At last we reach the grotto. Candles and pipes are lit. Each man
removes his equipment and his coat and flings himself on to the straw.
After a brief rest we dine, seated round a newspaper which serves for
a tablecloth. Our comrades left behind in the grotto have kept the
parcels which have arrived whilst we have been in the first line. We
manifest a schoolboy's delight in unfastening them.

_Monday, 4th January._

In front of the grotto the sections muster in columns of fours. A few
stragglers arrive, buckling on their haversacks.

The sergeant welcomes them with the words--

"Don't hurry, I beg of you. I suppose I'm here to wait for you."

The company goes down to Bucy. Within a short time the six of us are
installed with the Ronchards.

Another hunt for fleas. A vigorous offensive is necessary to prevent
ourselves being devoured alive. The labour required to keep one's body
clean becomes something herculean. The mud on coats and puttees refuses
to dry. We give up the struggle.

_Tuesday, 5th January._

Whilst the rest are away at drill I stay behind, the major having
exempted me from duty. I seize the opportunity to do the house work and
Jules gives me a helping hand.

It is Jules' dream to become a _valet de chambre_ in Paris. His views
on life as lived in the capital are unusual and lacking in precision.

He says to me--

"When peace is proclaimed, won't you take me back with you?"

"Listen to me, Jules, I don't want to hurt you, but I cannot afford
more than one servant."

"Nonsense, a man like you!"

"Yes, you see how badly society is built up."

Jules goes over his good points--

"You know me well; I can easily adapt myself to things. With me, you
may have your mind at peace, I would take charge of everything, and you
would not even need to pay me."

Such disinterestedness sends a shudder through me.

"You agree?" asks Jules.

"But--don't you see, I'm tied down here."

"How stupid you are! Things will not always remain as they are now."

"And what if I am killed?"

"Don't talk like that. It would be a pity!"

He sticks to his idea, for he has chosen me to assist him in the
realization of his dreams. Finally he remarks--

"You will leave me free to go out whenever I want, won't you? And every
morning I'll go and kill some little birds for you."

In the evening we chat away with quite civilian freedom of mind. We
forget both what we are engaged upon, and where we are. Plans for the
future are discussed without any one thinking of making the remark that
our talk is very silly. We pay attention neither to our odd-looking
accoutrements, nor to our unshaven chins. We are not even aware of our
tired condition.

We go out into the yard for a quiet smoke. It is very mild; the sky is
lit up with stars, as in times of peace. Away towards the north we hear
the firing of the sentries. The cannon is booming on our left.

Reymond does not feel sleepy; neither do I.

"Suppose we write an article for the _Figaro_?"

Agreed. I set to work. After scribbling away for an hour, I hand a few
sheets across to Reymond. After reading them, he declares--

"How idiotic!"

I feel hurt.

"Then write the article yourself, since you are so clever."

"It's not my business; I'm a painter. Begin it all over again."

I obey. More sheets and a further reading by Reymond.

"This time it's not quite so bad. Suppose we go over it word for word."

At two in the morning we are still at it. Our aim is to set forth
nothing but facts, and at the same time to thrill our readers.

_Wednesday, 6th January._

It's all very well to play at being journalists, and to spend the
night in writing, but this morning we must all be ready for drill at
half-past seven. The two collaborators are snoring away. Varlet wakes
us by walking over our bodies.

"Come now, up! you two journalists."

The journalists refuse to budge.

"You'll be marked absent!"

"Don't trouble about that."

At ten o'clock our comrades return. Our absence has passed unnoticed,
the very thing upon which our modesty and laziness combined were
relying.

At noon--

"Quick! Muster in half an hour. We return to the trenches."

The usual stir and commotion in alarms of this kind.

Afternoon and night are spent very quietly in the grotto.

_Thursday, 7th January._

The 24th occupies fresh positions between Bucy and Crouy, still in the
first line. The weather is dreadful; it is useless to gaze through the
loop-hole, you cannot see a yard in front of you.

A dull, unpleasant day. This evening, seated by Reymond's side in a
dug-out, which luckily is waterproof, I recopy by candle-light the
article for the _Figaro_, taking down the words at his dictation,
with tongue protruding, like a schoolboy, to make my handwriting more
legible. From time to time the rain, oozing through the ceiling, drops
a tear-stain on to the copy.

When the sheets of paper are filled, I carefully put them away safe
from the wet. They will be in the postman's hands to-morrow.

Four hours' sentry duty now to divert our minds. Those who pass by tell
us that the shelters are falling in upon the sleepers. Several times
during the night we have to go to the help of our buried comrades.

CHAPTER XII

THE CROUY AFFAIR

_Friday, 8th January._

This morning at half-past six, our artillery opens fire over a sector
of several kilometres. Fifty guns each fire a hundred and twenty-five
shots, a formidable total. The Moroccans carry two lines of trenches
above Crouy and, along with the light infantry, obtain a footing on the
upland. An important success, it appears. The German counter-attack is
ineffectual. Their artillery is directed upon our trenches and upon the
ground in the rear.

Are we to attack shortly? The question is asked of the lieutenants, but
they cannot answer it.

From noon onwards firing grows more intense; it is a tempest of iron
until five o'clock. Storms of German shells beat down upon Bucy, whilst
our own 75's crash their projectiles on to the trenches opposite. In
the midst of the din we distinctly note the roar of the heavier shells
passing overhead with the sound as of a slowly moving train over an
iron bridge.

As though the rain were not enough, a hailstorm begins to lash our
faces. Thunder-claps alternate with the roar of cannon. The sky is lit
up with lightning flashes. We are in a state of utter stupefaction when
the hour of relief arrives.

On reaching our Ali-Baba cave, we learn that a 210 shell fell this
afternoon in front of the grotto on a spot which for months we have
regarded as absolutely sheltered. Sergeant Martin has been hurled into
the air and the cooks flung _pêle-mêle_ on to the ground. Even in the
galleries the men have been lifted off their feet by an irresistible
shock. It is discovered that no one has received any real harm except
Sergeant Martin, whose left leg has been cut off close to the pelvis.
Debris of red cloth and of flesh are still strewn around the enormous
hollow dug by the projectile.

_Saturday, 9th January._

After a delightful and dry night spent in the grotto, we are sent to
clean out the branch trenches. Jacquard remains in the grotto busily
occupied in arranging in a box our store of chocolate tablets.

Outside, the dance continues: 75's, 77's, 90's, 105's, 155's, and 210's
plough their way through the air. With hands crossed on the shovel
handle, and one foot on the iron, we watch these latter shells fall
around the Montagne farm, and upon Le Moncel and Sainte-Marguerite:
first a black cloud, then a red star-like flash and finally a
thunderous explosion.

The enemy is trying to find our batteries. From time to time four
shots from a 75 follow one another in rapid succession as though to
say: "Don't concern yourself." The spectacle is so fascinating that we
do not feel at all inclined to work.

Violent fusillade from the direction of Crouy.

Towards evening the rain stops a little; so does the firing. The
company is again installed in the first line.

Verrier, Reymond, Maxence and myself are appointed to occupy in turn
two loop-holes and a dug-out. This latter is not an attractive place:
a cavity of three cubic yards dug in the side of the trench. There is
scarcely room to move one's body, and a few inside repairs are quite
indispensable.

No sooner have we arrived than the corporal in charge declares--

"There are four of you for this post. Arrange amongst yourselves
as regards the hours, but I want always to see two of you at the
loop-holes."

"All right."

Two of us then mount guard; a simple matter in the daytime. It consists
in walking about the trench, smoking one's pipe. An occasional glance
opposite to see that nothing stirs.

Those left in the dug-out are busily occupied. First, there is the
cleaning to be done. Our predecessors have left bones and pieces of
waste paper lying about, and the sight is sickening.

"_Ah, là là!_ Could they not have removed their own filth themselves?"

Then three tent canvases are opened out upon one another in front of
the entrance to the dug-out. This is a delicate operation: no space or
chink must be left between this improvised doorway and the walls of
earth; first, in order to stop the draughts--it is extraordinary how
one fears draughts in the trenches!--and then to keep out any light
calculated to make our presence known to the Germans.

A cover on the ground to serve as a carpet. Two small niches in the
wall for placing candles. A piece of plank, held up by two tent pickets
driven into the wall, forms a shelf: the refuge of pipes, _gamelles_,
and stores. Two bags on the ground to lean upon.

This task ended, one can take breath. It is now the time for
letter-writing, the ever-recurring formula: "I am writing to you from
the first line of trenches, close to the Germans. All the same, don't
be anxious about me, there is little risk...." We read the paper and
find that all foot-soldiers are looked upon as heroes. There it is, in
print. These things flatter us greatly. After all, it's something to be
a foot-soldier!

Generally everything is quiet at this hour; like ourselves, the Germans
are preparing dinner and bed.

The time comes for us to sit down to our meal. One man only remains on
guard. The other three dine gaily, and at considerable length. When the
conversation becomes too noisy, the sentry gives a kick at the tent
canvas. Every ten minutes the poor fellow draws aside the screen and
asks--

"Aren't you going to relieve me soon? I'm terribly hungry."

We reply--

"All right, there'll be something left for you. Remove that head of
yours; you're letting in the cold."

He resigns himself to his lot, well aware that any one under cover is
privileged to swear at a wet dog.

From time to time he fires a shot into the dark, just to make him
forget his hunger. He puts himself _en liaison_ with the entries right
and left of him.

Finally he hears the words--

"Come along, your turn for dinner. One of us will take your place. Just
wipe your boots and don't soil the carpet."

He glides into the hole, which exhales a blended odour of stew,
tobacco and fighting. A broad smile appears on his face as he says:
"That smells nice." And he believes it too. He perceives his portion
simmering away on a soldier's chafing-dish. Speedily comes fresh cause
for anxiety--

"Where's my coffee? I'll wager you've not kept it warm for me!"

Indignant protests.

"See! There's your coffee. We've even kept a cigar for you. Would you
like to begin with a couple of sardines?"

After which, his hosts add, pretending to shiver with cold--

"Careful, all the same, you're wet through. Don't stir, or you'll upset
everything in the room."

At eight o'clock' dinner is over. Each man cleans his plate and his
knife and fork with a piece of bread.

Preparations for the night. Two are going on watch duty and two to
sleep; relieving one another every four hours. The two privileged ones,
who are able to digest their meal at leisure, light their pipes, pass
the bottle of spirits, and are speedily fast asleep.

The two sentries stand with their back's to the rain. They hide their
pipes in the hollow of the hand.

"What weather!"

"Dreadful!"

One man coughs. The other remarks--

"Suppose we move from here; you'll wake the children."

Maxence and myself occupy the dug-out from eight till midnight. We
smoke a few pipes. The post has brought newspapers. Our accoutrements
hang on nails driven into the timber which props up the shelter.
Maxence, who has been somewhat fidgety for some minutes, remarks--

"I don't care! I'm going to put on my socks; it will be far more
comfortable."

"And suppose the lieutenant comes along.... And what if the Germans
attack?"

"Eh?"

He hesitates, his hand on the point of unrolling his puttee.

"Nonsense! Those over in front won't stir an inch."

I succeed in persuading him not to remove his boots. Well wrapped in
our coverings, we talk before going to sleep.

I am interrupted by an exclamation in the trench--

"The Germans are in the branch trench! Look out!"

We spring to our accoutrements and arms. A hundred yards to the right a
brisk fusillade is going on.

"Who was it shouted, 'Look out!'?"

"A man of the fourth section, the one on guard at the listening post,"
placidly answers Verrier, who has already fixed his bayonet to his
rifle, though retaining his cigarette between his lips.

"Well! Where are the Germans? There is nothing to be heard!"

We begin to scent one of those tragi-comic incidents frequent in
warfare. The lieutenant passes, an electric lamp in hand. As he strides
away towards the right, he gives the order--

"Everybody at the loop-holes!"

The command is obeyed.

In half an hour's time he returns.

"Well! What was the matter?"

Thereupon, half-smiling, and half-angry, he relates--

"It was a German patrol that had taken the wrong direction. Our
sentry was watching, sheltered by a tarpaulin stretched across two
pieces of wood. He hears the sound of voices and heavy steps, and,
crash! something splits the tarpaulin and falls with a howl on to his
shoulders. It was a German! Stupefied, the sentry calls out: 'To arms!'
Everybody comes rushing from the shelters, and there is a fine uproar.
Meanwhile, the German scales the parapet and clears off. The patrol had
already disappeared."

When the lieutenant has gone, we make our way through the three or four
hundred yards of deserted, winding branches to visit the heroes of the
adventure. They look very shamefaced.

The corporal seems uneasy.

"Do you think the lieutenant will give me the lock-up for this?"

Indignantly he adds--

"But what fools they were to come along here! Is that the way an enemy
patrol goes to work?"

Evidently, if the enemy in future approaches our lines without taking
the usual precautions, he will no longer be playing the game!

The sentry especially has a very sickly look.

"Why didn't you stick your bayonet into the fool of a German?" some one
asks.

"My bayonet was sheathed. Do you fix your bayonet when on sentry duty
in the trench? It's only in the illustrated papers that you find such
silly things!"

The escaped German, whom we baptize Fritz, has left his Mauser behind.
What sort of a story will Fritz have to tell on returning to his own
lines without his rifle? Will he be kicked unmercifully? Or will he be
clever enough to make up a tale of heroism which will win him an iron
cross?

A stormy night. Rifle shots. Patrols peppering one another.

The voice of a wounded German calls for help, a plaintive, wailing
voice; he wishes to surrender, his comrades have left him, and he begs
us to come for him.

"Come along. We'll do you no harm."

There is no reply. Most likely a feint to draw some of us into an
ambush.

_Sunday, 10th January._

This morning we notice that the Germans have profited by the darkness
to dig an attack branch, enabling them to pour a raking fire into our
trenches. This part of the sector is becoming difficult to hold. We
receive the impression that the enemy is preparing an ugly surprise.

At noon we are relieved. The glorious sunshine puts us in good humour.
A profound sense of security and repose inside--or in front of--the
grotto, whilst a heavy cannonade is preparing an attack on Hill 132.

The attack is made at sunset. The Moroccans and light infantry carry a
third line of trenches, and fortify themselves on the upland, almost
touching the Perrière farm.

_Monday, 11th January._

The whole afternoon we stand at the entrance of the grotto watching the
big projectiles fall upon Bucy. _Vr--ran!_ _vr--ran!_ In the evening,
silence again reigns; the 21st and 24th go down to Vénizel, on the
Aisne, a distance of four kilometres from Bucy.

For the first time since the 15th of November we are about to find
ourselves out of rifle-shot range. How glad we should be if we could
put ourselves for a week out of earshot of the cannons' roar!

It rains in torrents. Our quarters have been badly arranged; no one
knows where he has to go. Lieutenants shout; sub-officers raise their
arms in despair. We men wait, the rain pouring down upon us.

Finally comes an order: our squadron is on guard, and we must occupy
a pinnace moored on the right bank of the Aisne, above the bridge. We
follow the banks of the swollen stream, and then cross a wood, the
first few trees of which are partially under water. A faint light is
seen: it is the pinnace. We enter one by one along a shaky plank which
threatens to give way. And now we are yachtsmen. This is one of the
most curious incarnations of our life as soldiers.

The squadron--which, for the occasion, we call the crew--occupies the
'tween decks. There is a big petrol lamp and a good stove. The skipper,
mobilized on the spot, and his wife, seem very nice people. And what a
pleasant refuge!

Varlet brings letters and parcels. Our joy knows no bounds. Reymond,
tricked out in a sky-blue cap, repeatedly mounts on to the deck.

"Are you on the watch?" asks the corporal.

"Yes. Fine breeze north-north-west. In twenty days we shall reach the
Cape of Good Hope."

With a stubby little pipe in his mouth, his shaggy beard, and his
manner of walking with legs apart as though the boat were rolling, he
looks exactly like a seasoned old salt.

There are fourteen of us in the boat, and we are all covered with
vermin. The corporal, neck and breast bare, is engaged in minutely
picking his shirt; he burns his fleas in the stove, and at each
immolation gives an exclamation of wild satisfaction.

The capotes are hardened with mud, and the bayonets, which usually
serve as candlesticks, are covered with wax drippings. As for our
rusty, stopped-up rifles, they will only be fit for service after a
thorough cleaning.

I feel somewhat feverish, and sit down apart from the rest. A
formidable slap on my back: Charensac's way of showing his affection.
Heart-broken to see me ill, he shouts confidentially into my ear--

"What's the use of fretting, old fellow?"

"Just leave him alone for the present," advises the corporal.

Charensac brightens up more and more as he eats. He is just as happy
and pleased in a pinnace as he would be anywhere else.

Seeing that his comrades are writing letters, he goes to and fro,
brawling out--

"Ah! ah! So my little mates are working. Good! Mustn't disturb them
now."

In spite of the smell of rancid oil and tar we are quite content
because we are dry, and so we sit up till two in the morning. Finally,
each of us picks out a corner, wraps himself in his cover, and falls
asleep on the floor.

_Tuesday, 12th January._

The whole morning on the deck of the pinnace. An infernal cannonade
is roaring on the upland. How they must be enjoying themselves! About
eleven o'clock, as I was beginning to brush my capote, Charensac and
Meuret come running up, out of breath, and sputter out--

"To arms! The Germans are advancing."

Various exclamations. We hastily equip ourselves.

When the section is mustered, the lieutenant first makes us cross the
bridge of Vénizel and pass along the left bank of the Aisne, i.e.
in the direction opposite to the seat of battle. Here we begin to
descend with the stream. The swollen waters, of slimy yellow, carry off
debris of every kind. After proceeding a kilometre, we reach a wooden
bridge. The flood is so strong that the current threatens to wash over
the flooring. This bridge has been constructed by the English; it
still bears inscriptions in their language. We cross; again we find
ourselves on the right bank. To reach the trenches we shall have
to traverse, in open daylight, the plain of Vénizel, which is three
kilometres wide, and under the enemy's fire from the neighbouring
heights.

"In columns by twos, forward!"

Scarcely have we started in the direction of Bucy than we are greeted
by a shell, then by two, followed soon by three. We are being fired
upon. A command is given that the four squadrons should follow one
another at intervals of fifty yards.

On reaching the first houses in Bucy we find considerable excitement.
Gunners, sword and revolver in hand, exclaim--

"Don't go in that direction! The Germans are at the sugar-mill of
Crouy."

A horseman gallops up, coming from the line. As he rides past we ask--

"Well, good news?"

He frowns and makes a wry face. Evidently there is hard fighting going
on.

The section climbs in the direction of the trenches. Half-way up,
we meet a few men and a lieutenant of another regiment. They wear a
haggard look, and seem uncertain of their movements.

"Where are you going?" asks our lieutenant.

"I've not the faintest idea," says the other. "This is all that's left
of my company. We have just been mined."

One man, still in a very shaky condition, explains--

"For days past we have been hearing a scraping noise underground. Then,
of a sudden, _v'lan_! We are all blown into the air! Our poor comrades!"

Over the entire upland, between Missy, Bucy, Crouy, and the
Paris-Soissons-Maubeuge road, the battle is being waged. The Germans
counter-attack at several points. The artillery duel is a terrible one.

I am quite out of breath. As well as I can, aided by Charensac, I climb
the steep and muddy slope leading to the first-line trenches. Really, I
must throw out some ballast.

Thrusting my hand into my _musette_, I take out a couple of tins of
preserved lobster. These I mechanically hand across to Charensac,
who, woebegone, makes a sign that he does not want them. This is one
of the saddest impressions of fatigue and weariness that I have ever
experienced. If Charensac has come to this pass, we _are_ in a state! I
say--

"Well, then; the more's the pity! Away they go!"

I fling the two tins on to the road, Charensac sighing as he watches
them disappear.

At the top of the slope we start along the hollow way bordering the
upland. We are up to our knees in mud. Exhausted, I sit down on the
ground, but a shrapnel explosion a few yards away proves to me that
this is neither the time nor the place to rest.

I rejoin the section just as it is passing close to a battery installed
above the way, and partially concealed by foliage. The captain walks
to and fro under the balls. Accosting our lieutenant, he asks--

"Where are you going?"

A vague gesture is the reply.

"You don't know? Then come along with me, you can defend my guns."

We have to pass before one of those mouths spitting out fire without
a break. Our lieutenant politely remarks that it might be prudent to
interrupt the firing, to avoid accidents. The captain, with a somewhat
disdainful smile, condescends to give the order--

"Cease firing, to allow the foot-soldiers to pass."

Our section disappears in a branch in front of the four cannons. Some
men keep watch and fit up loop-holes and firing embankments. The rest
fling themselves on to the ground. The enemy's artillery plays upon us.
A 77 shell, which does not explode, comes to a stop on the edge of the
parapet, close to a gabion. Its pointed nose projects over the trench
as though to see what is taking place.

Charensac glides up to my side with the two tins of lobster in his
hands! On reflecting over the matter, he could not tolerate the loss
of such wealth, and so, at the risk of a dose of shrapnel, he actually
went back to pick up my preserved food. It's a case of principle; not
only will he waste nothing himself, he will not see anything belonging
to others wasted. And he actually refuses to accept them for himself!
I finally overcome his scruples by reasoning with him somewhat as
follows: "I tell you I threw them away, they are not mine. Keep them
yourself, you old fool. And take care that the Germans let you live
long enough to eat them."

He thanks me heartily for the trouble he has taken.

The day ends without any serious incidents to ourselves. When evening
comes, the section retires into a dug-out. A piece of bread and a tin
of _foie gras_ is all we have to eat after a twenty-four hours' fast.
At eleven o'clock comes the order to rejoin the rest of the 24th. The
company is put on reserve, and we go to sleep in a neighbouring grotto.

_Wednesday, 13th January._

Five in the morning. In obedience to command, I rise, but find that I
can scarcely stand on my legs. I am quite sick; on trying to put on my
things, a feeling of dizziness comes over me.

I give up the struggle and stagger away to see the lieutenant.

"_Mon lieutenant_, I feel ill and can scarcely stand."

"Yes, that's very evident."

"Do you think there will be anything of importance happening to-day?"

"I don't think so; the company is now in reserve. Remain here. You may
go down to the hospital shortly."

I lie down again in a corner, on a pile of stones, which seems as soft
as eider-down, so great is my fatigue. By candle-light my companions
rapidly equip and arm themselves. Reymond and Verrier, Maxence and
Jacquard, disappear; I have not even the strength to call after them
_au revoir!_ Henriot and Varlet grasp me by the hand.

"Come now, old fellow, you're not dead yet."

"I feel very near it."

"You'll soon be all right. See you again shortly."

And off they go. I am left alone in this unfamiliar grotto, which is
larger, colder, and more forbidding in appearance than our former one.
I again fall into a heavy sleep.

Ten o'clock. A succession of dull sounds is heard above the vault: the
roar of cannon. I hear whispers and wailings. A relief post has just
been installed in the grotto, and I recognize the voices of the major
and the attendants. Stretcher-bearers continue to bring in one wounded
man after another. What can be the matter?

I sit up. They tell me that fighting has been going on over the whole
upland for more than four hours.

"And where is the 24th?"

"The 24th is in reserve."

Good. I lie down again and instantly sink off to sleep.

Noon. The same dull heavy sounds, even more frequent than a couple of
hours ago. I rise to my feet, still in a very shaky condition. No one
is near me, except a few wounded Moroccans who have dragged themselves
here. Somewhat uneasy, I proceed to the entrance of the grotto. The
spectacle is a bewildering one. Squalls of shells are falling; bullets
are whistling past. About twenty yards away are a few straggling
soldiers, firing and shouting. A light infantryman, with glaring eyes,
screams out--

"A rifle! Give me a rifle! Mine won't fire any longer. A rifle! Here
they come!"

And the wounded drag themselves painfully along, trying to find
shelter. I question one of them. Things are going ill with us. The
Germans are advancing; they will be here any moment.

A lieutenant, as he passes, calls out--

"Those of you who are wounded and are able to walk, go back, unless you
want to be taken prisoners."

Go back. An easy thing to say. I know the ways leading to the hospital,
they catch all the spent balls; besides, the German artillery must be
sweeping the slopes.

Moreover, I cannot stand upright. Now I'm in for it, I shall surely
be taken. A feeling of inexpressible anguish comes over me; my head
whirls. I try to reflect, but can only repeat: "Prisoner. I'm going to
be taken prisoner." My one dread and horror!

Once more I thrust my head outside. There is nothing to be done; no
means of passing. The road is ploughed up with projectiles. Returning,
I tear up a few letters. All around me are none but Moroccans. The
first shock passed, my presence of mind returns, and I clearly see what
is going to take place: a rush of Germans into the grotto, the massacre
of the wounded Moroccans, and of myself along with the rest. No, I
prefer to die outside rather than in this hole. It can't be helped; I
must try to reach the hospital.

Again I find myself at the entrance of the grotto. I measure the
distance to be traversed: the most dangerous part is the crossing of
the road. Afterwards, the tree-covered slope descends abruptly to Bucy;
the balls will pass over my head.

There will also be shells coming crashing down, but I have no choice;
if I stay here, I am done for.

Gathering up my remaining strength, I rush out. The road is crossed.
I fling myself flat on to the ground, to recover my breath. Now I see
Bucy and a part of the ravine. Shrapnel and projectiles are bursting
on every side. I am perfectly calm; I do not miss an atom of the charm
of the situation. But my chances are poor. Forward! I descend gently,
holding on to the trees. My _musettes_ are choking me. With my knife I
cut the two straps. Ah! now I breathe better. Another effort; the first
houses are in sight.

"You cannot pass here! Where are you going?"

"The lieutenant has authorized me to go down to Bucy."

"You're not wounded?"

"No."

"Then you cannot pass. Those are my orders."

He is a light infantry corporal, a finely built soldier, with a strong,
obstinate expression on his face. He continues--

"I see you are in a sorry plight, but it was the commander himself who
gave me my orders: 'Only the wounded are to pass.'"

"Very good. You are right. It's wrong of me to be ill."

I sit down by the corporal's side, partially protected by a bit of
crumbling wall. He informs me that a terrible battle has been raging
ever since the morning, that after an awful bombardment our first
lines have been overthrown, and that we hold only the road which is on
a level with the grottos. At any moment this last line may be broken
through, and the Germans will then pour down on Bucy.

A perpetual stream of wounded. After a rapid inspection the corporal
allows them to pass. The roar of cannon is deafening; it shows no signs
of stopping. The balls sing above us, some crash into the ground:
_ffuutt...._

"The thing that worries me most," remarks the corporal in confidential
accents, "is that I have left my haversack up there with my watch in
it. A silver watch! I'm dreadfully afraid I shall never see it again!"

I do not dare to confirm his fears.

I look anxiously in the direction of the ridge on which fighting is
going on. My fatigue and weakness are such that I am almost indifferent
to everything; there is but one settled determination in my mind: not
to be taken prisoner.

An hour passes. The firing seems to be dying away. The wounded continue
to stagger along to the hospital; they give us bad news.

"Ah! the deuce!" suddenly exclaims the corporal. "We are giving way!"

Actually we see small silhouettes come tumbling down the slope. This is
the end; the line must have been broken.

"Off you go, if you are able to walk. There is no reason why you should
stay here any longer. _Nom d'un chien_, if only I can get back my
haversack!" he continues.

A rapid handshake and I move away. I proceed along one of the streets
of Bucy, keeping close to the walls. Shells batter down on to the
houses around. Another couple of hundred yards and I reach the
hospital. Look out! A dangerous crossing, and a raking fire along this
road. A company of Moroccans is in reserve: all the men side by side,
leaning against the walls. They await the order to attack. With eyes
fixed on me, they laugh and seem to be watching for the moment when I
shall be bowled over like a rabbit.

No loitering here: either I shall get across or I shall not. Well, here
goes! I dash forward and find myself in the hospital yard. Two shells
explode on the stable. The major recognizes me.

"Ah! It's you, is it? Well, you're a lucky fellow! Come in, quick."

I lie down at the foot of the stairs, exhausted by my latest effort. I
am so sleepy I can scarcely keep my eyes open.

Without a pause the major is signing evacuation orders.

"Clear out, fast, those who are able to walk. Bucy may be taken any
moment."

The wounded go hobbling away along the grapeshot-riddled road, the
balls giving forth their odious buzzing sound all the time. Two carts
are harnessed, and in them a score of badly wounded men are heaped
together.

As in a dream, I recognize comrades of the 352nd. They tell me that
the 21st has been exterminated. Ah! And Belin? No one can give me any
information.

"What of the 24th?"

"It was in reserve still a short time ago."

Where are my comrades? Poor fellows. Here comes Lieutenant R----, the
lieutenant of my section. He is hopping on one leg, with a bullet in
his thigh. No sooner do I see him than I ask--

"Where are my comrades?"

"Ah, yes, I know whom you mean. Well, all five were uninjured an hour
ago. That's all I can tell you. Things are pretty hot!"

I help him to get into the cart.

"Are you not coming too?"

"No, _mon lieutenant_, I am not wounded."

"Good-night, then, and good luck."

I wait another hour. The ridge is still being held, otherwise the
Germans would be here. I don't know where to put myself so as not to be
in the way. I feel worse than I should with a bullet in my skin, but a
sick man, surrounded by others suffering from bleeding wounds, must be
aware that he is a bore and a nuisance.

An infantry sergeant, who has just been brought down on a stretcher,
has a gaping wound in the abdomen, caused by a shell explosion. He
wears a calm though sad expression, and scarcely seems to suffer at
all; he simply turns his eyes to right and left, watching the movements
of the attendant who is dressing the wound.

All the time cries and calls are heard alternating with the crash of
explosions.

"You stretcher-bearers, go and fetch a cook who has just lost both his
legs, close to the wash-house."

"And you others, don't stay in the yard; you'll get killed."

"The wounded, as they enter, must leave their rifles at the
street-door."

The major perceives me, lying on the ground.

"See, here's an evacuation order. Off you go to Septmonts."

It is half-past four. As it is beginning to get dark the bombardment
slackens. I grasp a few hands.

"_Au revoir_, old fellow. You'll get there all right."

I cross Bucy. Stupefied, the inhabitants stand at the doors. There are
ruins everywhere. A few of the women are in tears. The road to Vénizel:
four kilometres straight across the plain. My fevered excitement
sustains me, along with the one obsessing idea: If only I can reach the
bridge I shall not be caught.

The hours seem to drag along on leaden footsteps. In the distance I see
a column on the march; they are reinforcements. At last! A battalion
of Zouaves. Khaki-coloured _chechias_, infantry capotes and velvet
trousers form their accoutrement; there is nothing about them of the
classic Zouave. As I come up I salute the commander, and say to him--

"Make haste. They are still holding out up there."

"That's right; we'll soon be with them."

Boom! Four shrapnels right on the front section, on a level with which
I find myself. No harm done, however.

It is getting dark. I continue to advance, somewhat shakily, but that
matters little.

The bridge! I show my evacuation order to a captain. So gently does he
say the words: "Pass, my dear fellow," that a scruple comes over me,
and I say--

"I am not wounded, you know, I am only ill."

Vénizel. I meet Perron, the head stretcher-bearer of the 352nd. He is
going to Billy, to bring away some wounded. He offers to accompany
me, and takes my arm. Two more kilometres in the dark. Fortunately we
know the country well. The cannon having stopped, the sudden silence is
somewhat disconcerting. There is a buzzing sound in my ears.

Perron knows no one at Billy, so I take him to the people who found
accommodation for us in October. They have not forgotten Lieutenant
Roberty.

"He is surely not dead?" they ask.

"No, he has been evacuated."

"And your other friends?"

"Ah! yes, where are they? This morning they were still alive, but
now----"

A man belonging to the 21st saw Belin about noon, engaged with his
bayonet in the trenches. By questioning everybody, right and left, I
learn that in all probability the 24th company has lost fewer men than
any other of the regiment.

My hosts prepare a bed for Perron and one for myself. I can no longer
see clearly, so I turn in and go to sleep.

_Thursday, 14th January._

Twice in the night I awake with a start. Bare-footed and in my
nightshirt, I run outside to listen. They are our own troops passing in
the direction of Vénizel. The Germans will not cross the Aisne.

At eight in the morning I continue my way, with a wounded man belonging
to the 21st. Billy is a very excited place.

I perceive Sergeant Chevalier of the 24th. At once he reassures me:
Verrier, Reymond, Varlet, Maxence and Jacquard are safe and unhurt. The
company has suffered but little: five or six killed, a score of wounded.

What a relief! I make my way towards Septmonts in almost a gay mood,
half supporting the man of the 21st, who is wounded in the arm, and
half supported by him. My companion tells me that he has been engaged
in hand-to-hand fighting in the branches, and has fired point-blank on
the Germans. The more they killed, however, the more there seemed to be
left.

Unfortunately, no one can tell me anything of Belin!

At Septmonts an ambulance doctor examines me thoroughly.

"Good; I must pack you off to bed. Go and see Desprès."

Desprès has a small pavilion near the château, containing beds for
about a score of sick and wounded. He is the hospital attendant. Busily
engaged as he is, running from one bed to another, he gives me some
food, and I speedily find myself tucked in between the white sheets.
How calm and quiet it is here! I feel more tired and feeble than ever.

_Sunday, 17th January._

For three days I have been resting here under the watchful care of
Desprès, who bestows as much attention on his patients as would a
mother. It puzzles me exceedingly how this excellent and kind-hearted
fellow manages to get through his various duties. In the intervals of
sweeping out the room, I learn that his wife lives in the neighbourhood
of Montdidier, right in the heart of a bombarded district. The family
is scattered; the home must be in ruins. He utters not a word of
complaint, but devotes himself whole-heartedly to his task of soothing
and consoling us.

Finally I receive news of my friends: a long letter from Reymond,
brought by one of my wounded companions. He writes as follows--

 "Well, you are an old humbug, giving us the slip in this fashion!
 Still, you're a lucky fellow, though now you must take good care of
 yourself. Perron informed us that you were at Septmonts. We have been
 ordered to take a rest, but our present surroundings are nothing to
 boast of. I myself am terribly lame, and my feet bleed a great deal.
 Verrier can scarcely breathe; his coughing is painful to listen to.
 Maxence, under an attack of acute dysentery, has that pretty green
 complexion you remember seeing when we were down at Fontenoy; Varlet's
 knee is as big as a child's head; Jacquard is laid up with bronchitis.
 We take up all the doctor's time, when he makes his rounds.

 The regiment held its ground long enough to enable reinforcements to
 arrive. The whole of our squadron was there.

 Belin is living. He came out without a scratch, though he fought like
 a madman. I'll see you again before long, old fellow...."

As I lie in my bed I read the letter again and again. This evening, I
am able to get up and sit on the doorstep. The rain has stopped. How
well I appreciate the peace and quiet of this place as I listen to the
roar of the cannon and the crack of the rifles in the distance.

_Printed in Great Britain by_

UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON