I went on automatically like a beast of burden. The weariness, and perspiration, the crushing weight of the pack, the bumping of the haversack and the water-bottle, the pressure of the crossed straps, all that combined, almost took away the consciousness of existence. A vague regret survived, however.
I mechanically repeated to myself from time to time: "My brother has been killed, my brother has been killed...." But these words conveyed hardly anything to my mind, my grief seemed to be numbed. I confusedly flattered myself that just now, at the first respite, it would awake, awful and sweet, and envelop me in its generous flood.
Another obsession, this one very ordinary and almost humiliating, was the rubbed place on my heel. It was not cured and I had struggled in vain to break the counter. The same rub at each step. On the uneven, stony surface of the bad roads we were following, I often made a false step. So great was my exhaustion that I no longer even took the trouble to throw my weight on to the tip of my foot in order to lessen the painful contact.
A high road at last. In a neighbouring field we caught sight of some teams and forage and ammunition waggons.
"An artillery park," Henriot shouted across Bouillon's head.
A little farther on we passed a troop of cavalry wrapped in their long dark blue greatcoats. Our poilus expressed their envy of them aloud.
"War's a picnic to those chaps!"
It was still quite dark—we were going through a forest when the cannonade started again, abrupt and violent. So near this time. Everyone started at it.
It rumbled and roared on every side. It felt exactly like being in the middle of a battle. And what a striking contrast there was between the silence, the sweet-scented air, and the calm of the woods, and this crashing and thundering! We were alone on this road, the moon had just risen; a gentle breeze caressed the little flowers on the slope, and the moss damp with dew.