They went away, well content with their day when the weather was fine, in the sure knowledge that they had seen some queer things, heroic fighters, and a model establishment.
But silence! I have pronounced their names—Freyssinet, Touche, Calmel—and the memories which they leave in my heart are too noble to be mingled with bitterness.
What has become of Hill 80 deserted? The battle has advanced towards the east. Winter has come; the city of tents has furled its canvas, as a fleet of sailing ships which must prepare for new destinies.
Often, in imagination, I see again the bare plateau and the immense burial ground left derelict in the fields and the mists, like the wreckage of innumerable ships down in the depths of the sea.
RÉCHOUSSAT’S CHRISTMAS
Réchoussat repeated in a shrill, strained voice: “I tell you, they’re not coming after all.”
Corporal Têtard turned a deaf ear to this. He was sorting out his stock on a table: lints, oil, rubber gloves reminiscent of the fencer, probes enclosed in a tube like vanilla cornets, a basin of enamelled sheet-iron resembling a big bean, and a bulging vase with a wide gaping mouth, looking like anything at all.
Réchoussat affected an air of indifference. “They needn’t come if they don’t wish to. Anyway, I don’t care.”
Corporal Têtard shrugged his shoulders. “But I tell you they will come,” he said.