I do not dare to confirm his fears.
I look anxiously in the direction of the ridge on which fighting is going on. My fatigue and weakness are such that I am almost indifferent to everything; there is but one settled determination in my mind: not to be taken prisoner.
An hour passes. The firing seems to be dying away. The wounded continue to stagger along to the hospital; they give us bad news.
"Ah! the deuce!" suddenly exclaims the corporal. "We are giving way!"
Actually we see small silhouettes come tumbling down the slope. This is the end; the line must have been broken.
"Off you go, if you are able to walk. There is no reason why you should stay here any longer. Nom d'un chien, if only I can get back my haversack!" he continues.
A rapid handshake and I move away. I proceed along one of the streets of Bucy, keeping close to the walls. Shells batter down on to the houses around. Another couple of hundred yards and I reach the hospital. Look out! A dangerous crossing, and a raking fire along this road. A company of Moroccans is in reserve: all the men side by side, leaning against the walls. They await the order to attack. With eyes fixed on me, they laugh and seem to be watching for the moment when I shall be bowled over like a rabbit.
No loitering here: either I shall get across or I shall not. Well, here goes! I dash forward and find myself in the hospital yard. Two shells explode on the stable. The major recognizes me.
"Ah! It's you, is it? Well, you're a lucky fellow! Come in, quick."
I lie down at the foot of the stairs, exhausted by my latest effort. I am so sleepy I can scarcely keep my eyes open.