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."