the cannonade, which increased in intensity hour by hour, made that morning a time of agonising suspense. for me, at least. the men who had already got accustomed to the noise, paid no more attention to it.

the regimental sergeant-major had been round to inspect accoutrements. some of the men were dropped on, poor gaudéreaux among others, as he had been unlucky enough to forget a rag for his rifle.

he was ordered confinement to barracks, but went out all the same. ravelli who had met him in the village had him arrested and taken to the guard-room where he was sentenced by the captain to four days' confinement.

lamalou commiserated him quite openly.

"that's what it is to be so bloomin' good-natured. like to see 'em darin' to put upon me like that!"

the regimental sergeant-major who overheard him gave him a furious look, but actually was afraid to say anything and only revenged himself by slyly warning him for the next fatigue.

in the afternoon lieutenant henriot came to have a chat with guillaumin and me. i noticed his anxiety to cause no more jealousy. catching sight of[pg 177] descroix and humel who were getting some fresh air in the yard, he called them. in this way the circle became enlarged. too much for me! i bolted.

when guillaumin came to find me again, i put on a sarcastic tone:

"thrilling, what?"

"oh ... quite interesting! you seemed to be listening all right yesterday!"

"couldn't help myself!"

i undertook to quote the conversation i had had the day before with the little subaltern. to be honest, i exaggerated grossly. i ridiculed poor henriot, and put on a tremolo, to recall his words about his birthplace where he taught, where his father was buried.

it seemed as if guillaumin only half liked this skit. he stopped me.

"he may not be a genius, but he's quite a good sort."

i was discontented with myself and with him.

i expected that we should be sent to relieve the 21st in the trenches. i was mistaken. it was the 23rd. our turn was skipped. i don't know why.

this cannonade which still persisted and seemed to be drawing nearer, unnerved me. where were they fighting? what approximately were the lines of tactical defence?

de valpic to whom i happened to put the question, informed me.

"the loison and the othain."

"what are they?"

"tributaries of the meuse. they both join the chiers, near montmédy."

"you are well up in it."

[pg 178]

he smiled; he was going in to lie down as usual.

the firing was still going on. i said to bouillon:

"we may be going up one of these days!"

"where to?"

"into the firing line."

"good luck!"

"really, good luck?"

"the sooner we go there, the sooner the war will be over!"

"but ... supposing we stay there?"

"oh well, one end's as good as another!"

towards evening someone announced that there was a convoy of wounded on the road. frémont happened to be beside me. i took him by the arm:

"are you coming to have a look?"

he hesitated. i took him along.

in the principal street a string of carts was filing past, carrying unearthly beings with sunken eyes, and blackened, ravaged faces. they were silent and had dirty bandages, some on their heads and some on their arms.

our poilus had hurried up, and were forming a hedge. they ventured to question those who seemed the least affected.

"well, lads? so you've given 'em a knock?"

most of them did not reply. a few shook their heads.

"nothing to be done."

"more likely them?"

they made a painful impression. more carts followed, these last drawn at a foot's pace. orderlies signed to us that they contained the badly wounded.

their time was up. why bother to transport them even?

[pg 179]

a vehicle passed at a trot going in the opposite direction empty.

"what have you done with your cargo?" shouted another driver.

"going to load up again! poor lads, turned into corpses, they are!"

frémont had turned very pale.

"let's be off!" he murmured.

"oh, rot!" i said rather fiercely. "let's see as much as we can.... we may be in their place to-morrow."

he stayed. a low cart appeared, containing two stretchers. on one of them was an officer with a bloodless face. he had a compress on his neck which dripped dark blood. on the other there was a young beardless corporal, whose respiration was rapid but even. although awake, he persistently kept his eyes closed. what could his wound be? the orderly gave an expressive glance. a great-coat which had been thrown over the man hung down at the knee-joints. his two legs were gone.

"no, no, come away!" frémont repeated with a shudder.

the horror of it! and it might so easily have been my turn to agonise to-morrow! by the fault of the politicians who had let loose this war! i cursed the allotted task, the yoke laid on so many, and my own acquiescence.

then my attention was distracted. an n.c.o. in the 30th who took an opportunity of getting out when his cart stopped—the horse had lost a shoe, i believe—asked for a drink. someone offered him wine.

"no. water!"

an uncanny voice, hoarse with fever. they[pg 180] brought him some water. he drank large gulps of it. i watched him. what was the matter with him, with his dark ringed eyes and pinched, mask-like face, and his body bent so queerly!

he began to speak in short, staccato sentences. he described the engagement which had taken place the day before. the long wait in the trench under shell fire in the full glare of the sun. they had not seen the bosches, but knew they were quite near by. the weariness and the enervation which increased as the day went on. the longing to be done with it, for the losses were becoming serious. the effect of the damned fairy tale accredited by the newspapers and even by the communiqués, according to which the enemy could never stand up against the bayonet. you could see the men half-pulling them out, the precious things, and looking at them longingly, so slim and sharp and shining...!

and then at the end of the day the stroke of madness...! word had been passed along, no one knew where it started from, "fix bayonets: charge!" the order rolled on from company to company. they had got up man by man then in ranks.... forward! they had rushed out, they were covering the ground at a tremendous pace. they felt that their opponents were there, petrified. they were just on the point of falling upon them. they yelled. no retort. quicker, quicker! it was really marvellous...!

but suddenly they realised their mistake. too late. there was an echo of terror. along this plantation of trees there was a river. they calculated its width. not very wide, but too wide to clear at a jump, all the same!

"the othain?" i suggested.

[pg 181]

"how should i know!"

and then—it was all pre-arranged of course!—then the enemy had opened fire with their machine guns at two hundred yards. they all flung themselves flat!... what a panic there had been. the men had thrown themselves desperately into the dark icy water, drowning themselves among the rushes under the very eyes of their companions.... the rest who had no entrenching tools with them, or packs either, were reduced to digging themselves in with their pocket knives and their nails. the enemy, who were coming nearer, calmly continued to ply their infernal "tea kettle" for a whole hour. the result being that there was not a man left out of the two battalions engaged. not one, untouched! all killed or wounded!

"and what about you, sergeant?" asked donnadieu, the little red-haired corporal.

"me?"

he pulled a wry face.

"napoo'd!"

"how do you mean, napoo'd," i exclaimed.

"yes, i've got a ball in my stomach—and as they have not operated——"

ah! that explained his being so doubled up! he climbed back into his cart.

"well, so long, you fellows. hope you'll have better luck."

he added:

"oh! it's blooming funny, this war!"

we were subdued and silent. then judsi jeered.

"oh, dash it all, the bloke must be pilin' it on. we may 'ave been mauled a bit, likely as not, but wot about them—with our 75's——"

[pg 182]

"you're right there," bouillon exclaimed.

another private, who was wounded in the arm, shouted gaily as he passed.

"the comedy's over for this child."

"wot, you don't mean to say you're legging it after the first act, you waster?"

he had good reason to rejoice. i would have given all i possessed to be in that man's shoes.

after this, excitement reigned. the rumour spread that a start was near, in fact imminent. the subaltern assured them in vain that he knew nothing of it, that he did not think.... the men repeated the words picked up by the captain's orderly.

"luckily there'll be a moon to-night!"

curfew time arrived, however, without anything happening and we turned in.

but a little before midnight the quartermaster's voice was heard at the door.

"turn out! marching kit!"

we were in full harness in no time. i went out. i came across henriot and asked him.

"are we really off?"

"yes, yes."

"any news?"

"hm! i've just had a talk with a subaltern who's come down from the woevre."

"from what part exactly?"

"flirey."

the name struck me. i remembered having heard it in my father's mouth.

"is he still there, the subaltern you mentioned?"

"i think so; yes, look there!"

i caught sight of the silhouette of a cavalry officer.[pg 183] i went up to him spurred on by a singular presentiment.

"i hear you've been near flirey during the last few days, sir...."

"exactly."

i tried to make out his regimental number.

"did you by any chance come across the 161st?"

"rather! i was attached to them for rations for three days!"

i hesitated.

"you don't happen to remember a lieutenant dreher?"

he repeated:

"dreher?"

"yes."

"a big fair fellow; a good-looking chap?"

"yes."

"his picket was surprised. he was killed!"

"no!"

"excuse me; i saw him being carried away. he had a bullet in his head. did you know him, sergeant?"