My regiment arrives! Our reservists run as fast as they can towards the embanked roadway. And a fine medley ensues! Greetings shouted from afar; exclamations of pleasure exchanged between the marching files and the men gathered on the banks. There is anxiety in the eyes of almost everyone looking upon those who have already fought. Some of the men return to the stacked rifles with faces lowered and arms listlessly swinging. I slip into my place as the 7th passes. And as the march proceeds the same questions are heard on every hand: "What about Robert?--He is wounded. A bullet in the shoulder. Not serious.--And Jean?--He is dead...." It is the brother of those two soldiers, the one wounded, the other killed, who replies. He lets fall these words in a breathless voice as he runs to resume his place in the ranks. We halt in column in a parched meadow. I take advantage of this opportunity to present myself to my Captain. He is a big, finely-built man, with powerful body supported by rather slender legs. The quick and penetrating glance he gives me tends to weaken my first impression, which led me to regard him as being rather slow-witted. "Ah, young man, so you are entering on your apprenticeship! You have come to a good school, as you will learn. A good school!" A smile wrinkles the corners of his blue eyes. It would seem that my superior has a pronounced taste for irony! There is also a second-lieutenant attached to my company, a Saint-Maixentian, young and solid, and something of a dandy. He has a flaming moustache rather too heavy for his ruddy, chubby face, possesses massive shoulders, thick wrists and calves. He puts out his hand and at once offers me a sip of gin as an appropriate prelude to further acquaintanceship. "Wait a little, old man, and you shall see how we'll mop them up!" He flings out an arm and with a sweep indicates the horizon and the village of Cuisy, which is close at hand. Five minutes afterwards, the whole regiment descends a steep road between two high banks covered with bushes. The stones slip beneath our feet; we clutch one another; we snatch at branches for support; my sword becomes an alpenstock. As soon as we get out into the country, we find ourselves once more in the mud and slush. We pass many barns but few houses. A village containing perhaps a hundred inhabitants is our resting-place. And there room must be found for three thousand of us. Let it be understood, we never would have occupied such a hole had there been no War! It is night. I know that we are supposed to be messing with the officers of the 8th. But where? No one has mentioned a rendezvous. I remind myself that a campaigning soldier's first principle should be: "Rely upon thyself alone." And so, through the darkness and mud and inevitable manure, I set out to discover the mess.