"Lintier!" he cried, in a voice vibrating with horror which went straight to my heart.
"It's nothing, old chap ... only my hand."
"I'll dress it for you!"
But shells were falling incessantly and I refused to let him get from under cover.
"Run off quick!" said the Lieutenant.
I ran off across the meadow, crouching down as much as possible under the menace of the shrapnel bullets. Blood was dripping on to my leggings and thighs, and sticking the cloth of my breeches to my knees. From my hand the bullet had projected a red, star-shaped piece of flesh and tendons on to my chest.
Suddenly came the whistling of approaching shells.
At the foot of one of the poplars two horses had just been killed. I threw myself down between them in the long, blood-stained grass. The shells burst. With a dull sound a large splinter ripped up one of the inert bodies protecting me.
I immediately set off again, rapidly getting out of the 77 mm. Howitzer line of fire. My wounded hand was covered with earth and horse's blood. As I crossed a road or embankment, I suddenly found myself faced by the threatening muzzles of twenty French field-guns lined up on the field. There was nothing for it but to retrace my steps.
Behind the motionless artillery some Moroccan Tirailleurs were lying among the mangel-wurzels. I nearly trod on them before I discovered their presence.