We are quartered in the German shelters—use whatever we can find to build a fire——
It continues to rain outside. We have formed a circle and discuss the events which have just passed endlessly.
In a corner of the shelter several men, lying full length on the floor, speak in a low voice. They are the colonel's messengers. I hear one who says to the other:
"I went back to see him—he was dead. I will reproach myself the rest of my life for not having helped him up this morning when we jumped over him."
THE HEROIC POILUS, CHAMPAGNE.
April 17, 1917.
Nothing withstood the attack of the 8th Zouaves; we reached our objective at the given time. We are elated over our success.[33]
The noise of the battle is dying out. The enemy surrenders to us in little groups. I find myself, cane in hand, standing before a dugout, from which crawl a dozen or so Saxons with their captain——
Pointing at our poilus, covered with mud and magnificent, he said to me:
"What are these men—lions?"