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."