“Not identified! Now we’re in for it. You’ll hear again of this from me. It simply won’t do. To begin with, come along with me at once!” We go from hut to hut, M. Poisson asking at each door: “Did any of you send us a body without identification papers?” You can well imagine that when asked in this way all M. Poisson’s men took cover immediately. Some laughed secretly: others were alarmed. All made the same reply: “A dead body without identification papers! Certainly not, Doctor; we never brought it.” M. Poisson began to breathe heavily. He spat everywhere; he was so angry that his voice was no longer human--it was hoarse, ragged and torn. In spite of his insufferable temper, I actually felt pity for the old man. Back he goes to the office, I following close at his heels. Dashing to his papers and documents, he shuffles them about like a spaniel in the mud. Then, shouting angrily, he says: “Here you are!--1236 came in; 561 have gone out. Do you understand? Six remain at present. That’s it: one is missing, and it must be the one. And nobody knows who he is! We are in a mess! We are in a mess!” I confess that M. Poisson’s assurance made a great impression on me. Especially was I surprised at the accuracy of his figures. It is wonderful, sir, to note the efficiency of military organisation. We learn, for instance, that twenty-three stretchers out of a hundred have been lost--not one more, not one less; or 1000 wounded were brought in; 50 died; therefore 950 are still alive. To maintain this mathematical order, it is therefore clearly well worth while taking the trouble to make a list of everything that comes in and goes out. Listening to M. Poisson making his calculation, I saw, too clearly, how my poor unfortunate corpse was one too many. The doctor repeated, “We are in a mess,” and added, “Now, you there! Come along with me.” M. Poisson bustled off again in all directions, to the left and to the right. I followed him, my head lowered, having been gradually seized by the fever that tortured him. He stopped all the officers. “I’m fed up with this job! Go and see if the body wasn’t sent out from your huts.” He entered the operating theatres and asked the surgeons: “You didn’t send me an unidentified dead body?” And every time he took out his rumpled piece of paper and added a cross, a number, with his pencil. Towards evening he fixed me with another look. There were red patches underneath his eyes as highly coloured as raw ham. “You!--go back to the mortuary! You’ll hear more of me yet!” I went back, and sat down, feeling very wretched. Three fresh corpses had been brought in. Tanquerelle was hoisting them into coffins with the help of the carpenter.