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."