I stood up. The severely wounded had now been dressed. A fire had been lit in the kitchen of the farmhouse, and a white-faced Algerian was dozing in front of it. On the mantelpiece an alarum clock, standing between two brass candlesticks, marked two o'clock. I had my wound dressed. It appeared that after all it would not be necessary to amputate my thumb. A N.C.O. took down my name, and on the cloth band which held my arm in a sling pinned a hospital ticket: "Severe shrapnel wound in left hand. To be invalided back, sitting." FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: Literally: "Take care of the children."--"Thank you."] [Footnote 2: Poilu (literally "hairy"): a popular term for the French soldier, equivalent to our "Tommy."] [Footnote 3: Shouters.] _Wednesday, September 23_ I had to walk five miles along the main road, upon which the crowd of men wounded in the head, arms, and shoulders gradually became less dense. Finally, I reached Ressons ... the station, the train.... Then the interminable jolting of the cattle-truck half full of mouldy loaves of bread ... fever, thirst. At last the hospital ... bed ... women's hands, the bandage stiff with black blood taken off ... silence ... ah, silence!... * * * * * On the 30th September the morning post brought me at the hospital a letter from my friend Hutin, which I copy here in all its simplicity: _"September 25, 1914_ "MY DEAR LINTIER,--Do write as soon as you can and let us know how you are. I hope you'll soon be all right again, and all the other fellows in the detachment join with me in wishing you rapid and complete recovery. "You probably do not know of the misfortune which befell the battery only a few minutes after you left. The Captain was killed--a shrapnel bullet just under the left eye. You remember how we all said: 'If anything happens to him he can count on all of us?' Well, when we saw him fall the whole lot of us ran out to help him. But it wasn't any use. It was all over. We carried the body back to the battery. Lieutenant Hély d'Oissel took over the command and we went on firing. He was crying as he gave the ranges. When, about eight o'clock, we got orders to leave the position, and had propped Captain de Brisoult upon one of the limber seats of the first gun, half the battery had got tears in their eyes. Two gunners sat one on each side of him. They had covered his face with a white handkerchief. At Fresnières we watched over him all the night. He was buried there. "Since then we haven't done much. Besides, we've been a bit unsettled by this loss. I can't tell you where we are, but if I tell you that the battery has hardly changed place since you left, you will know more or less where we are engaged. "Always yours, "GEORGES HUTIN." My eyes also became moist as I read these lines. THE END TRANSCRIBERS NOTE: Liége was not spelt with a grave accent until 17 sept 1946. The author's spelling was correct at the time of writing.