Captain Chatain is outside the door, and I give him the reply he is waiting for. He runs it over with a smile of satisfaction. “Everything went all right, Sergeant-Major?” “Yes, Captain.” “Good. Didn’t I tell you that it would simply be a promenade ... but I’ll recommend you for a citation.” Half an hour later I was snoring soundly in a dugout. CHAPTER XIX A WREATH We fell back in good order—in as good order as our wounds and the enemy’s artillery fire permitted. There is a roll call of the company, now reduced in numbers by half, in the ruins of Dompierre, now cleared out, conquered and organized. None of the two sections surprised in the explosion of the mine came back. There are great gaps in the ranks of the other two, especially among the non-commissioned officers. One sergeant out of four and two or three corporals are seriously wounded. As names are called and there is no response, we look around as though to search better. Lips seem to murmur, “What, he too?” Eyes search the distance, the turn of the road at the entrance of the village, as if they still expect to see him come. But no one comes. They will never come again. The lieutenant has to furnish all possible information about each one missing. “Did you see him fall? Who was near him? Was he wounded? Do you think he was killed? Did he stay there motionless?” There were as many inexact replies as there were questions. No one knew exactly or could know exactly whether the fallen was killed or wounded; appearances are deceitful. In the uproar of battle, he who seems dead is not even touched. Another may have had to stay hidden a long time to avoid being killed or made a prisoner. Opposite the name of each absent one the quartermaster writes: “Missing the ... presumably killed at....” After the roll call we separate silently. The most severely wounded are at the dressing stations, and several are discharged by the ambulances from the rear: Sergeant Pierron had four fingers of his right hand blown off; Sergeant Durosiers with a shoulder broken by a bit of shell; Corporal Goutelle shot through the thigh, and has lost a lot of blood. We accompany them as far as the ambulances which take them to the casualty clearing stations. Adjutant Dotant and Sergeant Lace take the initiative in buying a wreath and take up a collection among the men of their sections. “Lieutenant, if you will allow us, we are going to buy a wreath at Harbonnières and this evening two of us will go and place it on our comrades.” Too moved to answer, the lieutenant acquiesces with a nod. Morin and I, the only two who are not wounded, offer to carry it. Our errand is not without danger; but we start off at nightfall. The wreath is light but large, and its width makes it difficult to get through the narrow trenches. We have to hold it at arms’ length in certain places above our heads on the parapet and slide it along. Its ornaments catch in the stones and the twigs.