Roudon suggests that we twist around the village. Our wagons have the advantage of being able to go anywhere. They were made expressly for this work and have wide wheels and no frames. We make a passage through a hawthorn hedge with a few blows of the axe and cross the fields in spite of the invectives of the gendarmes who persist in trying to make us circle round in regular order, just as though we were going around the Obelisk in the Place de la Concorde. “Here, brave gendarmes, they pass as they can. Guns thunder. Shells are near, and it is necessary to arrive at the appointed time.” “Instructions thought out by some officer in the peace and quiet of a faraway office are all rot. Go on, you’ll find out.” [Illustration: A COMMANDANT’S POST _See page 165_] We are beyond the village an hour later and are on the highway which leads to the bridge at Cappy. Here, things are askew again. We must cross to get over the bridge. We can’t go around that. So we get into the string of wagons and follow their pace. They advance in skips and jumps ... they go ahead ten yards, stop a quarter of an hour, and begin again. One would think he was in the line at the Opéra on the day of a free performance. We stand about in one spot more than three hours. Finally, about midnight we reach the entrance to the bridge. A new delay! We have to get out of the way to let convoys past which are going in the opposite direction. They are ammunition trucks which make a noise like thunder. Just then, some artillerymen, who do not want to wait and who glory in the not altogether fortunate reputation of always getting by, no matter what’s in the way, dash on to the bridge at a gallop. “That’s it. Now we’re in a pickle, a mess ... that’s the....” The poles run into the carburetors, the horses rear and kick against the hoods with their maddened hoofs; the motors continue to run, raging at their impotence. Nevertheless a way must be cleared through the bridge. And in the pitch dark night that’s not easy. A chauffeur has the ingenious idea of lighting a headlight. Immediately, evidently judging that this light is without a doubt insufficient and its aid is indispensable for us, the German artillery sends us all the material necessary for clearing the bridge. It sends us shells and with absolutely no care at all. To the right, to the left, in front, and behind, the shots fall like a hailstorm. Cries, groans, oaths, and commands impossible to execute! It is Hell. In an excess of generosity, doubtless to aid us in getting out of our difficulty, a well-aimed shell falls on a truck, sets fire to the gasoline tank, and the whole thing saturated with paint and covered with impervious canvas bursts into flames. We can see. We can see only too well now, and the Boches too. Through their glasses they can easily estimate what their objective is worth and see what a large crowd is crowding around the spectacle. And their bombardment doubles in intensity.