Or:
"Corporal Henry, killed."
"And Morand?"
"Corporal Morand, wounded," said an old soldier.
Not one sergeant! Not even a corporal! All those squads which become after a time a well-beloved family to those in charge of them, a family not to be parted from without sorrow and regret—here they are deprived of their leaders, to whom they look up constantly, who watch over them, who sustain them through long and difficult hours by the mere magic of their presence. I had known each one of them so well, those I had lost to-day! They were the men of my choice, men for whom a single word from me was sufficient, men who had never sought to shirk their duties, accepting their task whatever it was, and fulfilling it to the very best of their powers.
Through the field behind us men are moving. We can hear the rustling of the dried leaves they are gathering; the falling flakes of earth from the roots they pull up; they have discovered some turnips. We remember then that so far we have eaten nothing.
It is cold. We shiver. We remain silent.
(The young French Lieutenant continues in his book, "'Neath Verdun" these tremendous experiences in which he shows the self-abnegation of the French soldiers. His comrade, Porchon, was killed at Les Eparges on February 20th, 1915. M. Genevoix himself was wounded—but his love for France and his spirit of exaltation lives on. The last chapter in his book, "The Armies Go to Earth" is a vision of the reality of these days when the world is being reconstructed.)