"Morand, see that no one goes by the path. If they do, they'll only get cut down. They'll be mere targets. No one by the path until we meet at the top of the hill!" It's the same old story of the poor lot who wouldn't go through the scrub at Vauxmarie. It's much easier to run by the path; there are no thorns to tear one's legs or get in the way; but certain death lurks there! "Halt!... Half turn ... skirmishing formation ... fire as you like!" The men obey me to the letter. That is good, very good--an obedient, intelligent fighting section. My heart beats rapidly but steadily. Just now I feel sure of myself, self-possessed, happy. I want to laugh at the bullets, and I thrust my quite unnecessary revolver back into my belt. The German bugles are now no longer sounding; their Mausers are firing only at irregular intervals. What are they up to? I determine to try and discover. "Cease fire!" I walk forward a few steps erect, seeking no cover. I am ready to wager that the forest is teeming with the pigs, that they will try to swamp us at twenty yards. I feel them numerous, invisible, about me. Invisible!... Not quite. I can see you, German beast, behind that tree, and you also to the left; your uniform is darker than the leaves. Just wait a moment, my merry men, and we'll make you a present of something. I make a signal to Morand, who has received previous instructions, and he runs up. I show him the bull's-eye. "Just look there, behind that big ... ah! ... I have got it!" "Lieutenant!" ... Morand's voice is startled.... "Are you wounded?... Lieutenant!..." "Eh? What?... Oh, yes!..." Some enormous projectile has caught me full in the stomach, while at the same moment a brilliant yellow streak flies before my eyes. I have fallen to my knees, doubled up, my hands pressing my stomach. How horribly painful.... I can no longer breathe.... In the stomach, too--that is serious!... What is going to become of my men?... In the stomach! If only I could see my dear ones for the last time!... Ah! I can breathe now. That is a bit better. Where exactly have I been struck? I take cover behind a tree, sitting down and leaning against it. Some of the men rush towards me--I recognize them all. One of them, Delval, wants to carry me in his arms, but I find I can walk quite well alone. Even my legs do not fail me, and I can sit without any discomfort. "No, I don't want anyone," I say. "Fall in again, I want no one." It certainly can't be very serious. What a story it will make! In the centre of my tunic is a hole, the edges of which are frayed. I thrust my finger in and draw it out again. There is just a smear of blood, nothing more. Why isn't there more? Ah! and my belt has been cut, and the button that should be there, where has that gone? My trousers are pierced also. Here is the spot where the ball struck; a crimson patch on the skin, which is slightly torn. Just one drop of blood trickling ... is that, then, my mortal wound?