Two men go along the road with a heavy step—we follow them.
"It's serious—but we'll get 'em. What an attack!"
"What a difference from Champagne!"
They stopped before a corpse, curled in a heap; he had certainly fallen to-day because we had not noticed him yesterday. With his big bloated lips and blackened face he might have been taken for a negro——
"How curious is the problem of life and death! Why him and not us?"
"Poor chap, poor old fellow. Let's go——"
THE POILU WHO HADN'T ANY SUSPENDERS.
The day of February 24, 1916.
The cannonade is frightful. There is a dumbfounding fire along the route—and we are right in the midst of the stricken zone.
"Look out, my friend, please don't stop, we'll all be shot to pieces——"
"I must pull up my pants—they've fallen down—I haven't got any suspenders——"