I turn to look into a rather pale and anxious face, which nevertheless expresses great relief. The man is a corporal, newly joined. He has unbuckled his pack to show me two bullet holes running right through the roll of it.
"You will find the bullets inside, all right," I tell him. "You had better keep them as souvenirs!"
All this while another of my men, named Gaubert, is grumbling and congratulating himself at one and the same moment. He playfully exhibits his flask, a battered, pitiful object which had just intercepted a bullet on its way to his thigh.
"Bravo, my little flask—bravo, my friend! You did not want your Gaubert to be sent down; so you took his place. What a good chap you are!… But what do you think your Gaubert is going to drink out of now? What do you want me to drink out of? I ask you!"
But he does not throw the useless can away; instead he places it carefully in his sack.
"I shall have to use my mess-tin—but never mind!"
Listen! I fancy I can hear the sounds of firing. It gives one the impression of being far distant; yet it should be near enough to us, rather too near, in fact. Perhaps the hill to the right is obstructing the sound! Porchon is at my side, because I am marching with the leading section.
"Do you hear?" I ask him.
"Hear what?"
"Rifle fire."