A mine has been exploded near us in the entrance. They shout; they cry. Belts of cartridges burst in the furnace. A swarm of bees seems to fly over our heads. The blockhouse has just blown up with our two sections. It was mined. When the smoke lifts from the overturned ground, all we can see are corpses scattered about. Our comrades ... our dead! The enemy wanted to prevent our companies capturing and organizing it. We try to see something from the shell hole where we remain. It is certain death even to try to raise the head. The bullets glance off the ground. Morin wants to join the lieutenant and finish his errand in spite of everything, but where is he? Was he in the blockhouse? We can’t see anyone in front of us. Our waves of infantry have turned to the right, invested Herbècourt, and taken it. They are now fighting in the village. We judge from the columns of smoke that there are fires. The noise of the explosion of grenades reaches us. But in front of us there is no one. It is a breach. The breach our company ought to have held firmly closed with its machine guns during the attack on the village. The enemy knows this without a doubt. He has calculated his blow well. He has succeeded. He is going to launch out from the clump of trees and take our companies in the rear. Indeed that is the case. Groups of gray worms crawl out of the thicket. They reach the ridge. They are a hundred yards from us. There is no one to stop them. But where are our two sections? Are they wiped out too? “My old Morin, we’re done for.” Our hands clasp in a fraternal farewell. In three minutes the Boches will be on us. They will kill us pitilessly. We hold our revolvers ready, fingers on the trigger. At least we won’t go alone. They stand up now and shout. They are going to make a dash. “_Vorwaerts! Gottfordam isch!_” The harsh sound of the command and the oath comes to us clearly. They dash forward to take the crater. But almost at the end, at scarcely fifty yards, the four guns of our two sections, hidden in the shell holes, receive them with a withering fire. The Boche line cracks, breaks; groups of men fall in heaps, like puppets. Our guns fire constantly. The Boche line wavers, hesitates, the ranks thin out. We can hear the dead sound of the falling bodies. We laugh and laugh; we applaud, crying like fools: “There are our two sections. Bravo!” But behind the files that fall are others in greater numbers which advance in close ranks, one after another. Our fire is slower. Our munitions are exhausted—the gun crew is firing all the cartridges of their carbines. The assailants realize this. Some of the groups have already reached our emplacements. An incredibly tall and strong officer hurls himself on a gun. It is Marseille’s gun. It has been silent just a moment, but it hasn’t finished its task for all that. Marseille tears the barrel from the tripod, and using it as a gigantic mace beats the officer to death.