The sight that gave me new strength just as I was feeling inclined to give way, and on the point of being false to all that I was and wished to be, was the attitude of the men. I can see them now taking aim and recharging, with their manly, straightforward, earnest faces. There was no confusion. They made admirable practise, their rifles leaping to their shoulders, or falling again in good earnest. What moral strength they showed! What a genius for resistance! How much their nerve had improved, and their courage increased during the last four weeks! It seemed to me that their virtue was, in part, my work, that my attempts at patient, serene exhortation were bearing their fruit. How grateful I was to them, my brothers. They were returning my lesson--not to argue, but to fight. To fulfil one's obscure duty. They were right. After all if we were to be killed at this spot in accordance with a higher scheme; if success were only to be won at this price! The enemy were no longer making any progress. They had got to the point after which any further advance under fire is merely an act of heroic folly. Our losses were not very great--only two killed in the platoon and four or five wounded, among them Bouguet, who, with a shattered arm, had distributed his rounds of ammunition, and was standing up boldly and reporting on the slightest movements of our adversaries. The Bosches had been badly cut up. We felt as if we were at a short practise range. After having fired at the mass as a whole for a long time we were now choosing our target. I remember a great lout who was running with large strides ahead of his companions. He got exactly into my line of fire. It was his destiny. I took aim, but he threw himself down in the stubble. I was patient enough to keep my rifle pointed at the spot where he had disappeared--it was a risky thing to do as the bullets were whistling round me. I waited anxiously for him to get up. He delayed and delayed. At last he moved. Then I pressed the trigger. Tac! My shot carried and he fell. I shut my eyes, feeling strangely giddy. Yes. After five weeks' fighting, he was the first victim definitely attributable to me. Heavens! My inborn gentleness and that of my education were to end in this--in taking life! I had killed a man. A man with a mother and a wife. That handsome fellow. I thought of my friends in Thuringia, of Otto Kraëmer, sturdy and gentle. "Wake up! What in the world are you thinking of?" said Bouillon, who was standing beside me. I shook myself and took my sight again. It was all part of the war. He was one of those who had massacred my brother. It was a case of killing or being killed--him or me!