At daybreak we reach Rambervillers. A major procures for me a _képi_ and an odd coat, and sends me to the hospital. My one object now is to find a pair of spectacles. The streets are almost deserted. A few groups here and there, in one of which I notice a man wearing an eyeglass. Going up to him, I speak of my difficulty. Sympathetic and understanding, he takes me to an optician. All the shops are closed: for one reason, because it is seven in the morning; for another, because, as I am informed, yesterday's battle did not turn well for us--I suspected this from what happened to myself--and the Germans might enter Rambervillers to-day. Here is the optician's place; he has left the town, and his wife is on the point of abandoning the house and following him. She is quite willing to find me a pair of spectacles, and offers me a grog in the bargain. I reach the hospital. "What am I to do with you?" asks the major. "You will simply be taken prisoner if the Germans advance. There is an evacuation train at the station. Off you go!" This train is still almost empty: a few vans, some of which are fitted up with stretchers for the more severely wounded, and a number of third-class or second-class carriages. I enter one of the vans: three rows of forms, two against each side, and one in the middle. Between the two sliding doors is an empty space. I lie down and watch the reinforcements, announced yesterday, pass by. The men march along gaily and in perfect order. Desperate fighting is going on a few kilometres away. Wounded soldiers now pour into the station; they are being brought up direct from the firing line. Ha! here comes a man of my own squadron. He is wounded in the arm. On catching sight of me, he exclaims-- "What! were you not killed?" "No, I am still alive, you see." "But you are reported dead. Some of the company saw you fall, hurled to the ground beneath a 210 shot." "Is that all?" The van fills up, but the stretcher-bearers continue to bring others. "There is no more room here, I suppose?" "There are already more than forty of us." "Close up a little. We must find room for every one." We do the best we can; I lean against the form in such a way that the sergeant seated in front of me places on it his two injured feet which have just been hurriedly dressed. It is a shell wound, and the wrappings are speedily soaked with blood. There is a man walking to and fro the entire length of the train outside; his head is bandaged, and his arm in a sling. On being told to enter the van, he makes a violent gesture of refusal, and continues his walk along the platform. A maddening performance, though necessary to numb his terrible sufferings and enable him to retain full consciousness. And this goes on for four hours.