"Suppose we open a few tins of food," remarks Reymond. "I feel terribly hungry."
Reymond is always ready for a bite or a sup. Nor is he ever downhearted. The acceptance of the inevitable forms part of his hygiene.
We eat, standing, a piece of tunny with our fingers, after cutting slices of bread which serve as plates. Impossible to exchange a dozen words. The explosions of the 75's double in intensity. The roar is deafening.
Quarter-past ten. Forward. The fourth section leaves the trenches. The fusillade gives out a ripping sound with almost brutal effect. The first section, our own, proceeds one by one into a branch, which gradually becomes less deep, and finally runs out on to the open ground. The bullets whistle past. We run ahead with bent bodies, one hand clutching the rifle, the other preventing the bayonet sheath from beating against the leg. It is our business to reach what seems part of a trench a hundred yards ahead, where we shall find temporary shelter.
Verrier stumbles. The thought comes to me—
"There! He's hit!"
Running up to him, I call out—
"Wounded?"
He makes a vague sign indicating that he is not hurt, but points to his panting breast. He has no more breath left.