We began to clamber up the other side of the valley. More corpses! On our right we could see the smoking ruins of a village. But our morale had much improved, for we had just crossed the water-bed where the enemy's efforts had spent themselves in vain for three whole days.
Pffmm...! Pffmm...! We looked up.
"Pills?"
Bullets. Yes! An unpleasant sensation.
In the fields on a line with us, we caught sight of isolated soldiers (rotters—the lost lot), lying down or cowering on the ground, others dragging themselves along on their knees, or limping along. Where the deuce was the enemy? Perhaps at the edge of that wood about twelve hundred yards away, but invisible, needless to say.
A bank skirted a cross-road running along the side of the hill. We went towards it. Cover! Everyone felt the need of a real halt. The wish was fulfilled. We formed into sections.
Guillaumin greeted me with:
"Any of you hit? I was very much afraid so, for a minute!"
"A man named Blanchet," I said; "a splinter in the stomach!"
"Poor devil! Two kids, I believe!"