It's the same old story of the poor lot who wouldn't go through the scrub at Vauxmarie. It's much easier to run by the path; there are no thorns to tear one's legs or get in the way; but certain death lurks there!
"Halt!… Half turn … skirmishing formation … fire as you like!"
The men obey me to the letter. That is good, very good—an obedient, intelligent fighting section. My heart beats rapidly but steadily. Just now I feel sure of myself, self-possessed, happy. I want to laugh at the bullets, and I thrust my quite unnecessary revolver back into my belt.
The German bugles are now no longer sounding; their Mausers are firing only at irregular intervals. What are they up to? I determine to try and discover.
"Cease fire!"
I walk forward a few steps erect, seeking no cover. I am ready to wager that the forest is teeming with the pigs, that they will try to swamp us at twenty yards. I feel them numerous, invisible, about me. Invisible!… Not quite. I can see you, German beast, behind that tree, and you also to the left; your uniform is darker than the leaves. Just wait a moment, my merry men, and we'll make you a present of something. I make a signal to Morand, who has received previous instructions, and he runs up. I show him the bull's-eye.
"Just look there, behind that big … ah! … I have got it!"
"Lieutenant!" … Morand's voice is startled…. "Are you wounded?… Lieutenant!…"
"Eh? What?… Oh, yes!…"
Some enormous projectile has caught me full in the stomach, while at the same moment a brilliant yellow streak flies before my eyes. I have fallen to my knees, doubled up, my hands pressing my stomach. How horribly painful…. I can no longer breathe…. In the stomach, too—that is serious!… What is going to become of my men?… In the stomach! If only I could see my dear ones for the last time!… Ah! I can breathe now. That is a bit better. Where exactly have I been struck?