"Those of you who are wounded and are able to walk, go back, unless you want to be taken prisoners."
Go back. An easy thing to say. I know the ways leading to the hospital, they catch all the spent balls; besides, the German artillery must be sweeping the slopes.
Moreover, I cannot stand upright. Now I'm in for it, I shall surely be taken. A feeling of inexpressible anguish comes over me; my head whirls. I try to reflect, but can only repeat: "Prisoner. I'm going to be taken prisoner." My one dread and horror!
Once more I thrust my head outside. There is nothing to be done; no means of passing. The road is ploughed up with projectiles. Returning, I tear up a few letters. All around me are none but Moroccans. The first shock passed, my presence of mind returns, and I clearly see what is going to take place: a rush of Germans into the grotto, the massacre of the wounded Moroccans, and of myself along with the rest. No, I prefer to die outside rather than in this hole. It can't be helped; I must try to reach the hospital.
Again I find myself at the entrance of the grotto. I measure the distance to be traversed: the most dangerous part is the crossing of the road. Afterwards, the tree-covered slope descends abruptly to Bucy; the balls will pass over my head.
There will also be shells coming crashing down, but I have no choice; if I stay here, I am done for.
Gathering up my remaining strength, I rush out. The road is crossed. I fling myself flat on to the ground, to recover my breath. Now I see Bucy and a part of the ravine. Shrapnel and projectiles are bursting on every side. I am perfectly calm; I do not miss an atom of the charm of the situation. But my chances are poor. Forward! I descend gently, holding on to the trees. My musettes are choking me. With my knife I cut the two straps. Ah! now I breathe better. Another effort; the first houses are in sight.
"You cannot pass here! Where are you going?"
"The lieutenant has authorized me to go down to Bucy."