"Poor lads. You don't know what it is!"
"You think not!" retorted Bouguet. "We had a taste of it at Mangiennes!"
"Pooh!" The others snorted with contempt. "Mangiennes!" Did we think that counted!
Some gunners, black with powder, who were squatting in a cart, shook their fists at the foot-sloggers. The latter, absolutely broken down, and drunk with rage, returned their invectives. They were just on the point of pulling out their bayonets. Our company commander, who had witnessed the scene, seized the most rabid by the collar. His tone and rank over-awed them.
An old sergeant, with touches of grey on his temples, followed, holding his cap in his hand, and repeating in a singsong voice:
"Stick to your packs, lads!"
It was broad daylight now. All our poilus were up, taking in every detail of the show.
Will you believe that in the end not one of us was seriously demoralised. Warnings and narratives left us rather sceptical. We even felt an uncharitable tendency to rag survivors of the furnace. Their hasty gait, their burlesque accoutrements! Above all each tragic assurance: "I'm the only one left of the X——," raised storms of laughter. We had seen dozens and hundreds of bearers of that device march past! Judsi exclaimed:
"Don't cry about it, old chap! Your chums are waiting for you in Paris!"
I believe that at the bottom of our hearts each one of us felt naïvely convinced that our arrival would put everything right....