“Thanks; the butt of mine is broken.”
“I say,” said another, “let me have your glasses.” Stooping, he removed the glasses on which I had fallen and which were hurting my side. Standing beside a tree, this soldier, glass in hand, watched the enemy and gave orders with the coolness and air of a Marshal of France certain of victory.
The sergeant was just then wounded. Our supply of cartridges began to run short. Within reach of my hand lay a few. I occupied myself by passing them on to my comrades, who continued their fire.
“Are the reinforcements coming?”
“Yes, old fellow, don’t worry; we are not going to leave you,” and he signed to the reinforcements to approach.
But, suddenly, I no longer saw the stretcher.
“They are coming back immediately,” said my neighbour; “our sergeant has been hit, they are taking him to the rear.”
The struggle was not equal. The French ranks thinned and received no reinforcements, the munitions were running short, they were obliged to retreat to avoid being surrounded.
“Poor chap,” said a man to me, as a sort of good-bye, as he reluctantly retired after firing his last shot. This time all was over; there was no more hope! The Germans were coming. It was impossible for me to see them, but I could hear their shouts and the vile noises they made as they advanced. I was lying on the ground at the mercy of the enemy who were hurrying to the assault, exasperated at the resistance of those who had sown death in their ranks, for the French had given way only at the last moment. In a few seconds the Germans were upon me.
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