Followed by Corporal Poulet, who has remained with me, I wander around in the violently bombarded village. I enter the empty homes abandoned by their inhabitants, where our poor soldiers, tired out and saying nothing, lie stretched out on the floors. The big marmites arrive at regular intervals, crushing houses and occupants——
Finally I end by discovering one of Chabert's sappers and say to him:
"Where is your lieutenant? Take me to him!"
"I don't know where he is—I believe he has been killed——"
The night is black and the air is filled with smoke and dust. One stumbles above all on plaster and bricks——
Sinister detonations and cries and groans. There is, in the air, the breath of catastrophe, yes, of catastrophe, which oppresses your chest.
The man who guides us is lost—he goes and comes, he makes us take wide detours, he is afraid and is nervous——
A large projectile falls at our side—the poilu is knocked down, giving vent to a raucous cry as he falls. I fall myself to my knees and feel the heat of blood which runs down my chest. My left hand rests on the body of the sapper and I am conscious of it covered with warm blood——
Poulet raises me up, giving me a drink of brandy. Stray bullets whistle around us——
I am only slightly wounded and take Poulet's arm to direct ourselves toward Fort Douaumont where I will have it dressed.