Another has been hit a fraction of an inch from his eye; the bullet has ploughed his cheek and passed out near the cerebellum. A circuit. He walks sturdily along, and calls out to us-- "Don't I look pretty?" We hardly dare look at him, the sight is so frightful. One entire half of his face is streaming with blood, the other half is laughing. Evidently the poor fellow has not begun to suffer yet, for he remarks blusteringly-- "This isn't the time to ogle the ladies, is it?" And he points to his torn eye. Corporal Buche also drags himself along, making signs that he is in pain. Through shot and shell his moans reach us. Poor Buche! When we crossed Paris, as we came from the depot, he sent for his wife. Mad with joy, she arrived at the Gare Saint-Lazare, and, in spite of the rush and tumult, immediately found her man. And how she kissed and embraced him! It lasted half an hour, without a word being spoken. From time to time they stopped to gaze into each other's eyes at arm's length. Then the kissing began again. Finally Madame Buche raised her face towards us and declared stoutly-- "We were married on the 1st of August, 1914. I suppose you think this very droll?" "Not at all!" Certainly it is anything but droll now to see Buche wounded, tortured by pain. Jestingly we had said to his wife-- "Don't take it so much to heart, Madame Buche; he's sure to come back, you love him so well." He comes right up to us, and we question him-- "Is it a bad wound?" "I should think so. My elbow's completely shattered. It hurts abominably." "Only your elbow? Lucky fellow! We were beginning to be afraid it might be serious." "What! Isn't it enough?" "Off you go now, old man. You have played and won; there's nothing more you can do here." His thoughts fly to his wife, and he sighs-- "We were so gay and lively at the Gare Saint-Lazare!" "You must tell us about it to-morrow. What are you complaining of when you'll soon be on your way to see her again?" Each one of us thinks-- "I should be quite content to escape as cheaply as Buche has done." Naturally those badly wounded say very little, even when they succeed in reaching us. The order comes to advance towards another trench we can just make out, even farther forward. Lying flat amongst the beetroots, we crawl along like serpents. No one is either gay or sad or over-excited even. Maxence, a huge fellow, is the only one who proceeds on all-fours. Reymond growls out-- "The megatherium! He'll get himself killed!"