We halted on the outskirts of a village called Tracy-le-Mont, where the supply-train was waiting for us. Rations were issued, the men in their cloaks standing in a black circle round the provision wagon, which was lit by a solitary lantern. Hutin and Déprez were among them. Somebody was calling out the guns: "Third!... Fourth!..." "First!" cried Hutin. "You've missed your turn. You'll have to come last now." We talked while waiting. Hutin was very tired and hungry. "There's some good grub going," said he. "We're going to get some fresh meat." "Yes, but fires will be forbidden." "I suppose you haven't seen the postmaster?" he asked suddenly. "No, why?" "Because in the first line you see him more often than we do." "Well, I've begun to doubt whether there is such a person." "It's true.... The brute never turns up! Confound it all! If only we got letters sometimes the time would pass quicker. The last I had was simply to say that they hadn't any news of me. It does seem hard!" "First gun!" "At last," said Hutin. "Good-bye, old chap! I'm off to get my grub. Try to get back to us soon." _Tuesday, September 15_ It was splendid weather when we awoke. During the night it had rained a little, but we had surrounded our guns with armfuls of hay gathered from some large ricks near-by. I slept under the ammunition wagon, which sheltered me as far as the knees, and I had covered my feet with a couple of sheaves. The ground was not very damp and I slept well in spite of the shower. With the dawn the sky cleared. The air was soft and warm, and the tall trees in their infinite variety of green shades stood out in clear-cut silhouettes against the pale blue of the sky. The grass, although cut short, now that the summer was ending, had regained some of its lost freshness. Here and there in the fields dark heaps arrested the eye. These were the bodies of fallen Germans. Once one has seen three or four one instinctively searches for them everywhere, and a forgotten wheat-sheaf in the distance looks like a corpse. We started, the wheels of the leading carriages tracing a well-marked track across the fields. On one side lay a dead German. The vehicles had brushed by him as they passed and would have crushed his feet had the drivers not seen him in time. His face was still waxen in colour, and the eye-sockets alone had begun to turn green. The solemn, regular features were not lacking in a certain virile beauty. The man sitting next me on the wagon looked long at the dead man's face as if trying to catch his last expression. "Poor devil!" said he, shrugging his shoulders. A little moved myself, I echoed: "Yes, poor devil!" But the wheel-driver, who had left a wife and children behind him, and was wondering how they fared, turned in his saddle: "Dirty pig!" he growled. * * * * *