He began to speak in short, staccato sentences. He described the engagement which had taken place the day before. The long wait in the trench under shell fire in the full glare of the sun. They had not seen the Bosches, but knew they were quite near by. The weariness and the enervation which increased as the day went on. The longing to be done with it, for the losses were becoming serious. The effect of the damned fairy tale accredited by the newspapers and even by the communiqués, according to which the enemy could never stand up against the bayonet. You could see the men half-pulling them out, the precious things, and looking at them longingly, so slim and sharp and shining...!
And then at the end of the day the stroke of madness...! Word had been passed along, no one knew where it started from, "Fix bayonets: Charge!" The order rolled on from company to company. They had got up man by man then in ranks.... Forward! They had rushed out, they were covering the ground at a tremendous pace. They felt that their opponents were there, petrified. They were just on the point of falling upon them. They yelled. No retort. Quicker, quicker! It was really marvellous...!
But suddenly they realised their mistake. Too late. There was an echo of terror. Along this plantation of trees there was a river. They calculated its width. Not very wide, but too wide to clear at a jump, all the same!
"The Othain?" I suggested.
"How should I know!"
And then—it was all pre-arranged of course!—then the enemy had opened fire with their machine guns at two hundred yards. They all flung themselves flat!... What a panic there had been. The men had thrown themselves desperately into the dark icy water, drowning themselves among the rushes under the very eyes of their companions.... The rest who had no entrenching tools with them, or packs either, were reduced to digging themselves in with their pocket knives and their nails. The enemy, who were coming nearer, calmly continued to ply their infernal "tea kettle" for a whole hour. The result being that there was not a man left out of the two battalions engaged. Not one, untouched! All killed or wounded!
"And what about you, Sergeant?" asked Donnadieu, the little red-haired corporal.
"Me?"
He pulled a wry face.