Little Ramel is amongst them, but he says not a word. His face is perfectly calm as he advances on all-fours.
"What's the matter with you, Ramel?"
"A ball in the abdomen."
We check our impulse to exclaim "Diable!" and help him to come down into the trench without shaking him. Poor Ramel, the life and soul of his squadron! He talks quietly to his comrades, and dies in the course of the night.
Another has been hit a fraction of an inch from his eye; the bullet has ploughed his cheek and passed out near the cerebellum. A circuit. He walks sturdily along, and calls out to us—
"Don't I look pretty?"
We hardly dare look at him, the sight is so frightful. One entire half of his face is streaming with blood, the other half is laughing. Evidently the poor fellow has not begun to suffer yet, for he remarks blusteringly—
"This isn't the time to ogle the ladies, is it?" And he points to his torn eye.
Corporal Buche also drags himself along, making signs that he is in pain. Through shot and shell his moans reach us.