Is this to be a hand-to-hand encounter? Nothing of the kind; the village is empty. The bayonets are sheathed.
Flinging our rifles over our shoulder, we turn away, firmly persuaded that, after traversing another hundred yards and finding ourselves once again in the open, we shall all be shot.
A wounded man, who has preceded us, calls to us as we pass. He is on his feet, though pale as death. His head is bandaged; there is a fixed glare in his eyes. The death sweat streams down his face, as he says hoarsely—
"You're not going to leave me here, are you? Take me away! I am wounded in three places."
"Come along, then; we'll carry you into this farm."
"No, no! They'll come and finish me. Please don't leave me behind."
One cannot tell the poor fellow that he will be dead before the Germans arrive. It is courting death for ourselves also, sure enough, but we take him tenderly by the arm and drag him away with us. Very speedily the end comes, and we leave him lifeless on the ground.
It is six o'clock. What remains of the section is crossing a field of oats. The bullets still follow us, also occasional bursts of artillery firing. We have to pass in and out of the projectiles like ants making their way between drops of water trickling from the rose of a watering-pot. The man by my side falls to the ground and lies there motionless.
Behind me I hear the snort of a shell.
"That one's for me!" I say to myself.