A few comrades join us. We crowd as well as we can into the trench, taking care not to tread upon the dead body.
The lieutenant in command of the company has walked across the open space which, at his orders, the men have had to crawl across. He now appears before us, safe and sound.
"Who is dead over there?" he asks.
"Mignard has had his brains blown away, mon lieutenant. A ball right in the forehead, just as he was scaling the parapet."
Mignard's haversack is unbuckled. His cover is unrolled and wrapped round his head.
More wounded men returning. Here comes one groaning more loudly than the rest. A bullet has pierced his arm above the wrist. He grins as he shakes his injured paw.
"What's the matter with you?"
"I'm certain my arm's broken."
"Move your fingers."
He lifts them up and down like a pianist.