They no longer march one on top of the other, stepping over corpses. Their horizon has broadened; they see; they breathe; they come out of their trance; they emerge from Hell, they come from death. They are coming back to life!
Two hundred yards ahead we can already see groups: our mules, our limbers, companies of Territorials who are repairing the roads, sappers from the engineer corps, men from the field kitchens, automobiles, dreams ... the living world at last.
The sub-lieutenant has remained at the rear of the column, assuming the difficult task of encouraging the stragglers and keeping up the spirits of the weak. Now he runs up and down the ranks. He is proud of his men; he loves their swagger and steadiness.
“Come, children, a little speed. Try to march by these people in some style.”
And as we approach the first huts he begins to sing at the top of his lungs his song, the song of the machine gun:
Mais dans le petit jour blémi,
Alerte! Voici l’ennemi!
Et t’éveillant soudain rageuse,
Ma mitrailleuse,
Avec tes tac tac réguliers,