But neither the gusts of rain nor the galloping thunderclaps, none of these tumults of Nature, interrupted man from his war. The operations and the dressing of wounds continued on Hill 80 as, on neighbouring hills, the batteries ploughed up the disputed ground. Often it seemed that man insisted on speaking more loudly than Heaven, and the guns and the thunder seemed determined to outbid each other. Once, I remember, the thunder had the last word: two sausage-shaped balloons took fire, and the artillery, stricken blind, stammered and then became mute. In a few days, I was given the job of furnishing the tents with little pieces of joinery, benches and tables. I worked on the spot, taking my tools with me, and I did my best not to disturb the patients, who were already exhausted by the din of battle. This was very painful work, because it made me a helpless spectator of unutterable misery. I remember being greatly touched on one occasion: a young artilleryman, wounded in the face, was being visited by his brother, a cadet in a neighbouring regiment. The latter, very pale, was looking at the face of the wounded man, of which only an eye could be seen and a stained bandage. He took his hands, and bent down quite naturally to kiss him; then he shrank back, only to come near again, victim of an emotion of mingled horror and pity. Then the wounded man, who could not speak, had an inspiration that was full of tenderness: with outspread fingers he began to stroke the hair and face of his brother. This silent affection told how willingly the soul gives up the spoken word and yields to its most intimate gestures. In the same tent Lieutenant Gambin was dying. He was rather a crude, simple-hearted man, who had been engaged in some obscure civilian employment, and who now, solely by dint of his stubborn courage, had gained a commission. His large frame lay exhausted from hæmorrhage, and for two days he lay dying. The breath of life took two days to quit his ice-cold limbs, from which exuded large beads of glutinous sweat. From time to time he sighed. At last, leaving my screw-driver and iron nails, I asked him if he would like something. He looked at me with wide-open eyes, full of memories and sadness, and said: “No, thank you. But oh, I’ve got the hump!” I was almost glad to see him die: he was too conscious of his long, dragging, terrible death. Little Lalau who died the same day was at least unconscious, though delirious, to the last.