"You're not wounded?"
"No."
"Then you cannot pass. Those are my orders."
He is a light infantry corporal, a finely built soldier, with a strong, obstinate expression on his face. He continues—
"I see you are in a sorry plight, but it was the commander himself who gave me my orders: 'Only the wounded are to pass.'"
"Very good. You are right. It's wrong of me to be ill."
I sit down by the corporal's side, partially protected by a bit of crumbling wall. He informs me that a terrible battle has been raging ever since the morning, that after an awful bombardment our first lines have been overthrown, and that we hold only the road which is on a level with the grottos. At any moment this last line may be broken through, and the Germans will then pour down on Bucy.
A perpetual stream of wounded. After a rapid inspection the corporal allows them to pass. The roar of cannon is deafening; it shows no signs of stopping. The balls sing above us, some crash into the ground: ffuutt....
"The thing that worries me most," remarks the corporal in confidential accents, "is that I have left my haversack up there with my watch in it. A silver watch! I'm dreadfully afraid I shall never see it again!"