"I don't feel anything. For the moment there was a burning sensation. My arm is quite stiff." It is the turn of his other neighbour to ask-- "Shall I dress it for you?" "No, thanks. I had better get back to the rear." "In that case, hand me your cartridges." "Of course. I was forgetting." The wounded man turns over on to his side, and with the bullets hailing down, quietly begins to empty his cases. His wound troubles him considerably, and he apologizes for his awkwardness. "How numb my hand feels!" Rules are rules, and regulations are regulations. Both soldiers have learnt, long ago in barracks, that sharpshooters advance in couples. They know that when one is wounded, the other must dress the wound, if possible, and in any case take the wounded man's cartridges. They think this is an opportunity to put into practice what they have learnt in theory. But what they do not know--and assuredly I am not going to undeceive them--is that the regulation they are following out was repealed over two years ago. A comic interlude. A man, in a panic of fear, refuses to advance. A bugler, who has just been ordered to take command of the section, addresses him as follows-- "Forward! or you shall taste the butt-end of my rifle." Groans and lamentations. Then the bugler rises to his feet and says-- "Join your comrades ahead." The other, utterly cowed, begins to crawl along the ground. "No crawling! On your feet at once; I'll teach you to show the white feather!" "You want me to be killed!" "If you don't go at once, I'll kick you." He gets up, whining and blubbering. The bugler accompanies him right to the line. "Now lie down!" The bugler, too, sinks to the ground. It is a miracle they were not both killed. Meanwhile, the German artillery is beginning to find its mark. We pay heavily for every step forward; soon all advance is impossible. We are even compelled to retire when the _mitrailleuses_ are directed upon us. After our leaps forward we now have to leap backward. A few yards in a declivity afford us a moment's respite, the balls passing over our heads. Taking advantage of this, I open my _musette_, hoping to enjoy a drink, and find that a bullet has smashed the bottle to pieces. Now we have to climb some rising ground, the German bullets following us all the way. The command is heard-- "Fix bayonets! the enemy is in the village. We are outflanked!" Is this to be a hand-to-hand encounter? Nothing of the kind; the village is empty. The bayonets are sheathed. Flinging our rifles over our shoulder, we turn away, firmly persuaded that, after traversing another hundred yards and finding ourselves once again in the open, we shall all be shot. A wounded man, who has preceded us, calls to us as we pass. He is on his feet, though pale as death. His head is bandaged; there is a fixed glare in his eyes. The death sweat streams down his face, as he says hoarsely--