y. Instinctively we close up as we hustle forward--always
forward--and the wound in our line closes of its own accord. The
adjutant stops, raises his sword, lets it fall, and drops to his knees.
His kneeling body slopes backward in jerks, his helmet drops on his
heels, and he remains there, bareheaded, face to the sky. Hurriedly the
rush of the rank has split open to respect his immobility.

But we cannot see the lieutenant. No more leaders then--Hesitation
checks the wave of humanity that begins to beat on the plateau. Above
the trampling one hears the hoarse effort of our lungs. "Forward!"
cries some soldier, and then all resume the onward race to perdition
with increasing speed.

* * * * *

"Where's Bertrand?" comes the laborious complaint of one of the
foremost runners. "There! Here!" He had stooped in passing over a
wounded man, but he leaves him quickly, and the man extends his arms
towards him and seems to sob.

It is just at the moment when he rejoins us that we hear in front of
us, coming from a sort of ground swelling, the crackle of a
machine-gun. It is a moment of agony--more serious even than when we
were passing through the flaming earthquake of the barrage. That
familiar voice speaks to us across the plain, sharp and horrible. But
we no longer stop. "Go on, go on!"

Our panting becomes hoarse groaning, yet still we hurl ourselves toward
the horizon.

"The Boches! I see them!" a man says suddenly. "Yes--their heads,
there--above the trench--it's there, the trench, that line. It's close,
Ah, the hogs!"

We can indeed make out little round gray caps which rise and then drop
on the ground level, fifty yards away, beyond a belt of dark earth,
furrowed and humped. Encouraged they spring forward, they who now form
the group where I am. So near the goal, so far unscathed, shall we not
reach it? Yes, we will reach it! We make great strides and no longer
hear anything. Each man plunges straight ahead, fascinated by the
terrible trench, bent rigidly forward, almost incapable of turning his
head to right or to left. I have a notion that many of us missed their
footing and fell to the ground. I jump sideways to miss the suddenly
erect bayonet of a toppling rifle. Quite close to me, Farfadet jostles
me with his face bleeding, throws himself on Volpatte who is beside me
and clings to him. Volpatte doubles up without slackening his rush and
drags him along some paces, then shakes him of