ere; and we see the mottled and
bedaubed shadows of soldiers. War befouls the country as it does faces
and hearts.

Our company gets going, gray and wan, broken down by the infamous
weariness. We halt in front of a hangar:--

"Those that are tired can leave their packs," the new sergeant advises;
"they'll find them again here."

"If we're leaving our packs, it means we're going to attack," says an
ancient.

He says it, but he does not know.

One by one, on the dirty soil of the hangar, the knapsacks fall like
bodies. Some men, however, are mistrustful, and prefer to keep their
packs. Under all circumstances there are always exceptions.

Forward! The same shouts put us again in movement. Forward! Come,
get up! Come on, march! Subdue your refractory flesh; lift yourselves
from your slumber as from a coffin, begin yourselves again without
ceasing, give all that you can give--Forward! Forward! It has to be.
It is a higher concern than yours, a law from above. We do not know
what it is. We only know the step we make; and even by day one marches
in the night. And then, one cannot help it. The vague thoughts and
little wishes that we had in the days when we were concerned with
ourselves are ended. There is no way now of escaping from the wheels
of fate, no way now of turning aside from fatigue and cold, disgust and
pain. Forward! The world's hurricane drives straight before them
these terribly blind who grope with their rifles.

We have passed through a wood, and then plunged again into the earth.
We are caught in an enfilading fire. It is terrible to pass in broad
daylight in these communication trenches, at right angles to the lines,
where one is in view all the way. Some soldiers are hit and fall.
There are light eddies and brief obstructions in the places where they
dive; and then the rest, a moment halted by the barrier, sometimes
still living, frown in the wide-open direction of death, and say:--

"Well, if it's got to be, come on. Get on with it!"

They deliver up their bodies wholly--their warm bodies, that the bitter
cold and the wind and the sightless death touch as with women's hands.
In these contacts between living beings and force, there is something
carnal, virginal, divine.

* * * * * *

They have sent me into a listening post. To get there I had to worm
myself, bent double, along a low and obstructed sap. In the first
steps I was careful n