Two of my men have now been wounded; one of them near me has sunk to his knees, and is gasping and vomiting blood; the other sits down with his back to a tree-trunk and begins to unlace his gaiters with trembling fingers in order to see "where it is," and "how it is." The noise of galloping in the clearing. Are they coming this way? No! ...! ...! "Well done, Morand! Bravo, my boy! ...!" (Suppressed by Censor.) (Censored) (Censored) (Censored) "What, the Boches? How will they explain it afterwards?" "Ah, good! Here you are, Lieutenant...." A corporal stands beside me, cool and unperturbed. There is no such word as fear in the dictionary of this man. "Some of the men broke and ran a few moments ago," he says, "and it is not good to think about. But I must say the occasion justified them. The Boches came up like rats, swarming everywhere. The thickets are full of them now; some of them are not more than fifty yards away. I assure you it is so, Lieutenant, and I am not short-sighted. There is not a single Frenchman between us and them, and they are there all right...." It is true enough, but all the same.... Their cursed bullets are covering every inch of ground round about us. Suddenly their bugles ring out and their drums sound close at hand, very close. They are charging. "Look, they're there," cries one of my men. "You can see them there." At the end of the clearing two Germans are kneeling and firing. "Rapid fire! Right into them!... Fire!" Lebels crack. The fumes of burnt powder drift beneath the trees. The German bugles sound louder; the noise of their drums almost drowns the fusillade. Behind us the machine-gun splutters with sufficient violence to destroy its own tripod. "There they are! There they are!..." The men have called out simultaneously and without any trace of fear in their voices. They are excited by the surrounding inferno, by the increasing smell of burning powder, by the sight of the enemy advancing in mass formation less than a hundred yards away--dense ranks of men in which our bullets create constant gaps. The intoxication of battle has seized the men; no longer is there thought of panic. "Fix bayonets!" "Hardly worth the trouble now, Lieutenant ... you must retire." A breathless voice has uttered these words, and I turn to find that Presle, my _agent de liaison_, has come up behind me. Great drops of perspiration fall from him, and he breathes pantingly, mouth wide open. One of his cartridge slings hangs severed from his belt. "A bullet did that," he said. "Cut the sling while I was running. However, I come to inform you that you must retire behind the hill, above the Saint Remy road. We are going to hold on there. The other companies are gone already--you alone remain now. You must move quickly." Move quickly! A very simple business, of course, considering the thorny and tangled undergrowth, which wraps itself about one's legs, binds and tears them.