There were wounded men here and there. Bouguet, who had had to give in and sit down, his face drawn with pain; and Icard, with folded arms, as plucky as ever, though his shoulder had been ripped up by a splinter of shrapnel. For whom was I looking? I did not realise it until De Valpic hove in sight. There he was, safe and sound. What a relief! His cap was pushed back on his forehead, his cheek-bones were purple, and he had a scratch on his temple which was bleeding. He had caught sight of me, and was coming up when I saw Chailleux, our connecting file, appear behind him. He shouted: "Where's the lieutenant?" "Any orders?" "Yes, we're to fall back." "What?" "In artillery formation." I was disgusted. "How absolutely idiotic." De Valpic exclaimed in a hoarse voice: "We're outflanked on the right." The edge of the wood sloped away on that side. A sudden squall hurled us all to the ground. We were blinded by soil. De Valpic was half buried. Two yards from us a man, who was leaning against the parapet, reeled, but remained standing on his feet. Horrors! His head was severed as if by the blow of an axe, just above the contorted mouth. De Valpic who had freed himself, and was none the worse, except for feeling somewhat dazed, could not bear the sight of it. He tottered, and his eyes were dimmed. I went to his help, but he recovered himself immediately. "Carry on, carry on," he murmured. "You're needed over there." I went back and found Henriot feverishly repeating: "Now, don't let's lose our heads." "It's a good job we're going to hook it," Guillaumin said to me. "We're about done." It was quite true. There were nothing but bewildered, dazed-looking men all round, with strained and haggard faces and trembling hands. They would not have counted for much against a resolute onslaught. The enemy, cautious and practical, seemed as busy as possible digging new trenches two hundred yards away from us. I looked blankly at Guillaumin: "What do you think? Are we done for?" He began to chaff me. "Could we ever be done for?" The quartermaster-sergeant came round, with two of the men. All three were smilingly handing round their caps, collecting: "Please help the poor." What did they want? Ammunition? Yes, a few extra rounds for the platoon which was to stay and cover the retreat. I started. So some men were to be sacrificed. I put on a detached tone: "Which platoon has been warned for the job?" "They drew lots," he said. "It's to be Delafosse's." No. 1. I hurried along to them, feeling that I could not go without shaking Humel by the hand. He was touched by it. "It means hell for us," he said. "But mind you fellows get off all right." The men accepted their lot without keenness or bitterness. Descroix was standing a few yards away. I took a step towards him. "Good luck, Descroix." "Like to change places?" he snapped, in a fury.