Before dusk the battalion was formed and orders were given to march back to the line of reserve. The news that the destination of the battalion was farther from the front was sceptically received. The men adopted the pose of feeling insulted at having been offered so poor a ruse. “Reserve, my eye. Why don’t they say we’re goin’ to one of them rest camps you always hear so much about?” “Or else tell us that we’re goin’ to get thirty days’ leave each.” “Yeh, where’s them boats we was goin’ to see?” “I’d like to know.” “We may go in reserve, but it’ll be in reserve of the Germans.” Thus they offered their various comments upon the foolishness of believing that they were to leave the front. But the talk was borne on weak wings. For the moment the men had little interest in their destination, save that they wanted it to be near. Their legs felt as if they were to be separated from their bodies at the groin. Their feet felt as if their shoes were full of small, sharp pebbles. Major Adams, leading his horse and walking beside the men, encouraged them, saying that they would halt in a short time. If the battalion as a body troubled little about where they were going, Hicks cared not at all. The incident of the falling tree had broken him. He felt in danger of his life. Where he went mattered not. There was no safety anywhere. He tramped along the road, an atom in the long, lean line, his face showing white as paper through the dirt. As night came on and a lopsided moon appeared, the battalion turned off in a woods, was halted, and lay down. In the dark Hicks and Pugh found a place where the grass was thickest. They spread out their blankets and lay down. Pugh was restless, though his body was scourged with fatigue. His was the foraging spirit. There were no supply wagons in sight from which to pilfer, there were no field kitchens, with the cooks stewing a barely edible mess of tomatoes, beef-bones, potatoes, and onions. He got up and silently stole away. Less than an hour afterward he returned, his arms laden with bottles and condiments. He uncorked a bottle, placed the open end under Hicks’s nose, and gently shook him. “Oh, Hicks, Hicksy, look what daddy’s got.” Hicks awakened with a start, almost knocking the bottle from Pugh’s hand. “Cognac?” Hicks greedily asked. “Naw,” deprecatingly, “but it’s pretty good champagne.” Hicks drank, passed the bottle to Pugh. The bottle played shuttlecock between them. Suddenly Hicks felt impelled to talk. “Jack, I’m all in. I feel sort of sick. I don’t believe I can go up to the front any more.” “What’s the matter?” sympathetically. “These Big Berthas got you fooled?”