"Castelnau is here. We shall soon have them caught as in a vice!" "Good!" For some moments the lieutenant has been in conversation with a general. He now comes up and gives the order to pick up our arms. Our turn has come at last. The general approaches. "You are fresh troops," he says, "and I rely on you to do your best to capture the positions we lost this morning. Reinforcements are announced. What we have to do now is to gain time." We ask for nothing more than to march forward. From time to time I catch the general's orders to the lieutenant: "Cross that village ... pass the bridge ... reach the heights ... make sure that the wood on the right is not occupied by the enemy ... do not lose contact with the main body...." We advance in fours. Each section moves along in the same direction at intervals of a hundred yards. The lieutenant--the only officer for these five hundred men--marches at the head of my squadron. On reaching the village mentioned, we find a peasant quietly leading three oxen to the watering-place. A little farther along two children, hand in hand, watch us file past. The houses are empty. Once again the open country. Passing under an apple-tree, I pluck an apple and eat it to quench my thirst. We cross a bridge. There are three roads before us. The lieutenant hesitates for a moment and then takes the middle one. No firing anywhere; perfect calm and silence. On reaching an elevation, we are greeted with a storm of bullets. I hear the orders to form a skirmish line, and to set our rifles at the 800 yards range. Very soon we are being fired at from the front and from both sides. The lieutenant runs the entire length of the skirmish line. He brings the men forward in tens, according to regulations. I watch him and feel certain that he will be shot. No, he continues his course right in the thick of the bullets. If only we could see the enemy! But he is safe in his trenches or hidden in the wood, and is able to fire at us as he pleases. Lying flat on the grass, for the first time we hear the bullets whistle past. The enemy's fire, too well directed, sends the earth leaping into the air all around me. I imagine my head to be as large as a pumpkin. What a target! Whilst reloading, I notice an ant right in front of me, scaling some cartridge cases, and the thought comes to me-- "What an advantage to be quite small." Hearing a cry, I turn my head and see a poor fellow with the blood streaming from his hand. The wounded man groans-- "_Aie! Aie!_ Just what I expected!" Then he stands upright. He feels that he has paid his debt and is now out of the game. It no longer interests him, so off he goes. He proceeds about a dozen yards towards the rear, and then, of course, falls dead to the ground, riddled with bullets. The soldier on my right says-- "Now I'm hit!" "Where?" "A flesh wound in the arm. Nothing serious." I am inquisitive enough to ask-- "Does it hurt?"