I reach the hospital.
"What am I to do with you?" asks the major. "You will simply be taken prisoner if the Germans advance. There is an evacuation train at the station. Off you go!"
This train is still almost empty: a few vans, some of which are fitted up with stretchers for the more severely wounded, and a number of third-class or second-class carriages.
I enter one of the vans: three rows of forms, two against each side, and one in the middle. Between the two sliding doors is an empty space. I lie down and watch the reinforcements, announced yesterday, pass by. The men march along gaily and in perfect order.
Desperate fighting is going on a few kilometres away. Wounded soldiers now pour into the station; they are being brought up direct from the firing line.
Ha! here comes a man of my own squadron. He is wounded in the arm. On catching sight of me, he exclaims—
"What! were you not killed?"
"No, I am still alive, you see."
"But you are reported dead. Some of the company saw you fall, hurled to the ground beneath a 210 shot."
"Is that all?"