"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.