The major perceives me, lying on the ground.
"See, here's an evacuation order. Off you go to Septmonts."
It is half-past four. As it is beginning to get dark the bombardment slackens. I grasp a few hands.
"Au revoir, old fellow. You'll get there all right."
I cross Bucy. Stupefied, the inhabitants stand at the doors. There are ruins everywhere. A few of the women are in tears. The road to Vénizel: four kilometres straight across the plain. My fevered excitement sustains me, along with the one obsessing idea: If only I can reach the bridge I shall not be caught.
The hours seem to drag along on leaden footsteps. In the distance I see a column on the march; they are reinforcements. At last! A battalion of Zouaves. Khaki-coloured chechias, infantry capotes and velvet trousers form their accoutrement; there is nothing about them of the classic Zouave. As I come up I salute the commander, and say to him—
"Make haste. They are still holding out up there."
"That's right; we'll soon be with them."
Boom! Four shrapnels right on the front section, on a level with which I find myself. No harm done, however.