There is a junior officer among the prisoners, whose lips and chin are hidden by a curly beard. He understands a few words of French, and, as the Colonel questions him, he stares directly back at him through slitted eyes and answers: "Yes, monsieur." "Not monsieur, but Colonel!" The words, uttered in a sharp voice, are accompanied by a meaning glance. The Boche flinches as though he had received a cut from a stirrup leather. He draws himself up, arms to the body, shoulders squared, stiffly at attention. Captain C----, who is present, turns to me: "I do not think I shall need you any longer. Do not wait, but try and find your captain and the rest of your company." (Censored) Hardly have we set out on the march, when a few shots sing over us. Quick volleying succeeds, until the crackling of rifles again covers the whole plain. "They are starting again, Lieutenant," says Chabeau. It is true; they are starting again, and, what is more, as hard as they are able to. "Fire on and always, my Boches," I murmur, "that is what you are best fitted for. You dared attack us hand to hand and man to man, only under the cover of night, and even for that you paid dearly, as you well know!" I catch sight of a line of men, some thirty or so, away to the left. They represent, apparently, all that survive of a section. They are moving swiftly forward, stooping instinctively beneath the hail of lead. At the head of them marches an officer, slim built, bearded, yet of boyish appearance. Is it not Porchon? I strike across towards him with all speed. I am certain now it is no other than Porchon. And he also has seen me and is approaching me. He is the first to utter the very question on my own tongue: "Do you know where the Captain is?" "No! Are you also looking for him?" "And you! Then let us march together, old fellow." We range our men in skirmishing formation and set off. All the while the bullets are whistling and spattering about us. Chancing to turn my head to one side, I suddenly detect an officer, sitting, the sodden ground notwithstanding, in the middle of a field. As he catches my eye, he waves his arm. I have an idea that he is shouting to us, but the infernal noise prevents me hearing what he says. I take a few steps in his direction, unexpectedly to find it is the Colonel. Turning to Porchon I shout the news aloud: "It is the Colo! I am going to see what he wants ... look after my men, will you? ... you understand?... Take my men.... Can you hear me?..." He nods swiftly, turns and continues steadily on his way towards the rising, beyond which one can hear the noise of hard fighting. Saluting, I present myself to the Colonel. "Second-Lieutenant of Reserve." He nods, smiling, and glances towards a puddle metamorphosed temporarily into a muddy fountain by a bullet. "Reserve--or the Line! Ah, well, I fear bullets take no heed of such distinctions!"