"What are you doing there—this is not the time to go in swimming—advance with the countersign—it's a boche!"
"Kamarad! Kamarad!..."
"Listen here, I regret it, but I can't accompany you, you understand—I can't leave my post. You see that bridge? Take it! You will go to that house just over there, it is Marine Headquarters, and ask for the commanding officer. Is that clear? Now get along—good-night."
And the prisoner left alone——
A SPECTACLE OF THE WAR, NIEUPORT.
September, 1915.
I lunched for the last time with my friend Reymond. He is accompanying me to Brigade Headquarters of the Marine Fusiliers, where I must say good-by, because, to-morrow, I leave for another sector.
We are in the principal street of Nieuport and are only a short distance from our objective when a frightful detonation rends the air a few steps away.
Dense clouds of smoke envelop everything. A few steps more, and we see a very sad spectacle. Four 105's, two timed shell and two percussion, break in the midst of a group of workers—forty or more Zouaves are on the ground, wounded or dead——
Parbleu! it was like a sight at the Great Dune, on a similar occasion; one could not help but see, like the nose on your face——What indifference!
A Zouave, short and stocky, yelling and waving his arms madly—he is all bloody—he must have gone crazy——