The defilade along the white road continued. How many officers and men, with horror and despair at their hearts, did we meet that August dawn? Henriot came to find us. He was tortured with suspense at last. What were all these people doing? We shook our heads, hesitating to pronounce an opinion. It all passed as in a dream. Silent, preoccupied phantoms who seemed to be hastening towards some goal.... Now, however, some were to be seen whose pace was less rapid, and who did not detest being looked at--men who had been wounded, only slightly for the most part--who seemed to be saying, "We have done our bit!" A few of us ventured to question them. Oh, what replies we got. A snare! A shambles! There were too many Huns! Each man claimed to be the only one left of his battalion or regiment. A battalion sergeant-major, hit in the foot, gave us a graphic account. "The Bosches were coming out of a wood, our 75's loosed off a belt at them, and made pretty good shooting too. You ought to have seen the blighters dance! We were under shelter, not far off, enjoying ourselves enormously. They were blown up and fell in little pieces. Platoon after platoon cut up. Others followed them, to be met with the same fate. More still--until at the end of an hour, there was a thick rampart of dead bodies all along the edge of the wood. But new lots kept on coming up and crossing the obstacle, others shoving them on from behind. Our guns were beginning to stop talking--not enough shells. And the grey swarm slipped through into the plain. Suddenly we were threatened and attacked and overwhelmed. What could we do? Retire! We ran for our lives." Henriot ground his teeth, and muttered: "No, no, not that." "You'll soon see!" said the other. He saluted, and went on his way limping. Other accounts were in a different key. There was often a question of a defensive taken by us. We advanced, and lay down and fired. Everything was going well, but then suddenly the hostile machine guns were unmasked. Ran, ran, ran, ran. The famous crackle went on and on, mowing our lines down like corn. No use being plucky! What could we do? (That was the everlasting refrain.) Escape! Never to return again. Some badly wounded men appeared supported by three or four comrades who made use of the excuse to escape. There were very few orderlies and stretcher-bearers. One heard nothing but complaints, for the most part unjust, of the army medical corps. Guillaumin undertook to see a Zouave, who had just come a cropper, to the neighbouring dressing station. He came back disgusted. A major had grossly insulted him: "Oh, go to the devil! Your pal's done for!" A certain number, who were dragging themselves along in a sorry state, found the strength to exhort us, with a melodramatic gesture, to avenge them. Others pitied us: "Poor lads. You don't know what it is!" "You think not!" retorted Bouguet. "We had a taste of it at Mangiennes!"