IN LORRAINE
_Sunday, 23rd August._
This morning we started in the direction of Belfort. About midnight
the whole of Humes was peacefully sleeping when the bugler sounded a
prolonged call, repeated all over the village. In a twinkling we join
our squads. It appears that the regiment at the front urgently needs
reinforcements of five hundred men.
The complement--no longer contingent--has mustered in the dark.
After the roll-call we are summoned to the office for the last time.
Distribution of rations and small loaves.
At six o'clock the five hundred are ready to start. Our chief is a
lieutenant of the reserve--a schoolmaster in civil life. Each man has
picked a few flowers on the roadside to fasten a bunch to his rifle.
The whole depot is present. Verrier and Reymond give me a vigorous
handshake. Really the whole scene moves me, though for nothing in the
world would I have it appear so.
"Look out, there! Number! Form fours! Right wheel! Forward!"
The column begins to move, and we thunder forth the _Marseillaise_
with the utmost enthusiasm. I turn round to wave a last farewell to my
friends.
They return the gesture and shout, "_Au revoir!_"
At Langres station we enter the train, which rumbles off in an easterly
direction. I again have the luck to find myself in a second-class
carriage. The same atmosphere and gaiety as when we left Paris for the
depot. Almost all my companions have gone before their turn. They are
convinced they will come back and see the end of the business. And they
wish to be in at the victory. The heat is terrible.
Perspiration trickles down faces already bronzed by a fortnight in the
open air. There are ten in the compartment; all the same, at nightfall,
we manage to drop off to sleep.
_Monday, 24th August._
Daybreak. The road is blocked; we advance but slowly, stopping several
times in the course of an hour. We almost run into a locomotive and
three carriages that have been overturned, the result of a recent
catastrophe.
During the night we have changed direction: instead of continuing
towards the east, Gerardmer and the Schlucht, at Laveline we were
shunted on to the line of Saint-Dié--Lunéville, across the Vosges. In
the distance to the right we hear the roar of the cannon.
Raon-l'Etape. All change! It is noon. To the east of the station is a
semi-circle of mountains. In the direction of the Donon the cannonade
is incessant, though it no longer forms a dull rumble: each shot is
distinct from the rest. Of their own accord the men load their rifles.
We fall back upon Rambervillers.
It appears that things here are not progressing at all well. The 13th
Corps, the van of which had reached Schirmeck, is now retreating before
enormous forces. We see regiments file past: men and beasts look grimy
and thin; there is a feverish look in their eyes, beneath the grey lids.
The artillery pass along so exhausted that they totter in their
saddles; they have their ammunition-wagons behind them, but no guns.
Jokingly one of our men calls after them, not thinking what he is
saying--
"Well, well! where are the cannon?"
Then they give us black looks and shrug their shoulders. Some one jerks
his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the enemy. We insist no
further.
The men of the 13th Corps, who have been under fire for a fortnight
without a break, see from our blue muffs, which still retain their
colour, and from our comparative cleanliness, that we have just come on
the scene. They call out to us--
"You new ones there have come at the right moment. You'll find plenty
to do!"
An endless file of inhabitants fleeing before the invasion; they have
heaped their goods and furniture on to great carts drawn by oxen,
whilst they themselves follow behind, laden with baskets and bundles
of all sorts.
For a few minutes a young woman walks along abreast of our section. She
is carrying a little girl, whilst another hangs on to her dress. On a
perambulator, which she pushes along, are piled up clothes and various
odds and ends.
All these poor folk, seeing us proceeding in the direction of the west,
know what it means: their homes abandoned, to be pillaged and burnt by
the enemy.
Women cry out to us--
"This is the direction you should be taking, not that."
And they point eastwards. They even add--
"Are you running away?"
The road mounts and descends through woods of fir-trees. A lieutenant
of dragoons is sleeping on the side of a copse, his arm linked in his
horse's bridle. To the right is a dense mass of smoke, occasionally
broken by red glares of light: Baccarat is in flames. A pitiless
sun beats down on all this misery and sadness. The cannon roars
incessantly. A sound as of thunder is heard, doubtless coming from the
fort of Manonvillers. Night falls, and the sky is lit up with flashes
of light. An aeroplane darts past, quite close to the ground. Without
waiting for the word of command, the whole detachment fires at it.
Rambervillers is now in sight. We halt on the road. Prolonged
discussion between the lieutenant and a staff officer.
The lieutenant comes up to us--
"We are on the wrong track; all the same we shall lay in a store of
provisions and spend the night in the barracks of Rambervillers."
It is now quite dark. We wait in a barrack yard, until finally the
lieutenant says that we may enter the buildings. Meat is passed round.
I have not the heart to cook and eat a piece. Since the previous
morning, twenty-four hours on the railway and thirty kilometres on
foot, in the heat of the sun. However new and fresh we may be as
troops, a little sleep is more than welcome.
Each man busies himself in finding quilt and straw mattress. The cannon
are silent. For supper I dip some bread in my wine. It tastes good.
_Tuesday, 25th August._
Three in the morning. Everybody is up and about. How I should have
liked to sleep a few hours longer! In the yard, by candle-light,
the lieutenant presides over a distribution of coffee, haricots and
potatoes. Our _gamelles_ must be taken down, filled and replaced on our
haversacks.
What is the direction we are to take? The east, in all probability.
We halt at dawn by the side of a wood and make some coffee. Fires are
lit and the pots begin to boil. Some of us make an attempt to roast a
piece of raw meat at the end of a stick, when the order comes to start
off once more. We swallow the burning liquid. The lieutenant informs us
that the detachment is to be linked on to the left of the 105th. The
cannonade is intense. In a few moments we shall be within the line of
fire. Everybody is in the best humour imaginable.
Now we are led along in a general movement, the purpose of which we
naturally understand nothing; we have only to obey and keep our eyes
open. Though full of spirit, we are quite bewildered and dumbfounded.
In the first place, we expected to link up with our regiment; it
appears that this regiment is fifty kilometres away. Then again, we are
without officers: before leaving the depot, the detachment was divided
into eight provisional sections of sixty men each. Several of these
sections are commanded by a corporal, or even--a still more serious
matter--by two corporals; it is so in our own case.
We traverse a hilltop and look down into a valley. The sections advance
at intervals of thirty paces, in columns of fours. So far everything
has been as regular as at an ordinary drill. The lieutenant sends an
order that we are to halt and lie down. Good! It is fine, and the sun
is beginning to make itself felt. Soon the entire section is lying
stretched on the ground.
In front, a hill behind which the battle is being fought. The panting
of the _mitrailleuses_ may be clearly distinguished, by reason of its
regularity, from the intermittent rending and tearing of musketry
discharges. Suddenly a shell bursts, a distance of two hundred yards
away. The cloud of black smoke rises and disperses almost immediately.
Then come other shells at regular intervals. Are we the enemy's target?
No. His object is to reach a village on our right and a wood of
fir-trees on our left; the black clouds appear in turn over a house in
the village, near the church steeple, over the wood. Suddenly, from the
edge of the wood, four thunderous claps go off. Shouts of joy, as the
section exclaims--
"Those are our 75's replying!"
They are speaking now in all directions. We are greatly excited, for
every one is delighted at the spectacle of a real battle obtained so
cheaply. No one is afraid. Not a single heroic word is uttered; merely
rapid interjections.
"Ah! What a pity! There goes the steeple!"
And indeed, the steeple falls crashing to the ground as though it were
no more substantial than a child's toy. It must surely have been made
of cardboard to have crumpled up so quickly.
Still lying at full length on the grass, I pick a couple of flowers and
place them in my pocket-book as a souvenir. Are we to spend the whole
day basking in the sun?
The other sections rise and advance; we do the same. We make our way
towards a wood over the hill opposite.
We skirmish along a road, beneath the firs. Near a tree, a dragoon, his
breast bare and feet firmly planted on the ground, is having his back
examined by a major; on his shoulder-blade is a large gash, from which
the blood is dripping as from a tap. On the ground, by the wounded
man's side--this is the first wounded soldier I have seen--lie his
helmet and his arms, his coat and shirt.
The roar of battle increases; it is as though invisible hands were
beating away with huge sticks on a number of carpets. We think we
recognize the enemy's _mitrailleuses_ by their _tacotacotac_, which
continues for several seconds; whereas ours stop, begin again, stop
once more, in less mechanical fashion.
The roar of our 75's may be distinguished amid the deafening crash;
they go off in fours, with a sharp, clear crack.
The lieutenant arrives. We ask him--
"Where are the others?"
It is not his mission to tell us, but rather to send us over to a
battery which is calling for infantry support.
The four cannon are close at hand, small, and with mouth pointing
upwards. They have not been marked, fortunately for the gunners and for
ourselves as well. The lieutenant is on the watch a few yards away, and
we hear the words of command. The enemy is drawing nearer; a short time
ago he was 2,400 yards away, then 2,000, and now he is within 1,800
yards.
Soon the captain of the battery gives the order--
"Bring up the limbers!"
The horses are a little to the rear, in a hollow of the meadow. The
guns are now silent; they are fastened to the carriages. In a few
minutes they have all left. It is ten o'clock. And what of ourselves?
An artilleryman passes along on horseback at a walking pace.
Some one asks--
"Why is the battery going away? Are we beaten?"
He flings at us the mild though superior look of a horseman for a
foot-soldier.
"The Germans are firing at us from a distance of twelve kilometres with
their 210's. It's right enough waging war, but not when the advantage
is all on one side."
And off he goes. I look back and see him tossing his head.
A staff officer comes up at a gentle trot.
"What are you all doing here?" he asks.
"Artillery supports, _mon capitaine_."
"Don't you see that your artillery is gone? You had better do the same.
We are falling back."
From the crest the section descends into a smiling valley, through
which winds a stream. A hostile aeroplane flies right above us; it
drops a fuse in the form of a smoking serpent.
Ironical exclamations--
"What's that filth? Just look at it!"
Five minutes afterwards violent explosions are heard just overhead.
The German artillery is peppering our retreat. Why is no one either
killed or wounded? I cannot tell. A shell bursts right in the middle of
a group of hussars, who disappear in the smoke. When it lifts, we see
that both men and horses have been thrown to the ground, but they rise
intact. Then every one within a radius of three hundred yards laughs.
We cross the river one by one on a plank. A couple of stretcher-bearers
carry off a light-infantryman all covered with blood; his face is
livid, beneath the dust and perspiration. His head shakes loosely about
on the stretcher, and his eyes wear a dull, indifferent expression.
A few splinters fall harmlessly around. Assuredly the Germans are
firing too high. I hear the remark--
"Their artillery is no good, and they aim no better than a peasant
could do."
Noon. An implacable sun in a sky of crude blue. A glorious summer,
really!
The 75's begin again. Their silence was somewhat disturbing.
We have been retiring for a couple of hours, and now we come to a halt.
Why is this? If the Germans have beaten us, why do they not follow up
their advantage? But then, in war a foot-soldier must resign himself
to the fact that he may not know why he advances or withdraws. He sees
only his immediate surroundings, nothing of any consequence.
The guns are silent. Not a shot is heard. The order is given to pile
arms. We proceed to a neighbouring stream to quench our thirst and
refresh ourselves by dashing a few quarts of water over our heads. No
shade anywhere to be seen; we shall have to lie down in the full glare
of the sun. Each couple shares a box of tinned meat, which is spread
between pieces of bread. A refreshing drink is followed by a good smoke.
A hussar, galloping towards us, exclaims--
"Castelnau is here. We shall soon have them caught as in a vice!"
"Good!"
For some moments the lieutenant has been in conversation with a
general. He now comes up and gives the order to pick up our arms. Our
turn has come at last.
The general approaches.
"You are fresh troops," he says, "and I rely on you to do your best
to capture the positions we lost this morning. Reinforcements are
announced. What we have to do now is to gain time."
We ask for nothing more than to march forward. From time to time I
catch the general's orders to the lieutenant: "Cross that village ...
pass the bridge ... reach the heights ... make sure that the wood on
the right is not occupied by the enemy ... do not lose contact with the
main body...."
We advance in fours. Each section moves along in the same direction
at intervals of a hundred yards. The lieutenant--the only officer for
these five hundred men--marches at the head of my squadron.
On reaching the village mentioned, we find a peasant quietly leading
three oxen to the watering-place. A little farther along two children,
hand in hand, watch us file past. The houses are empty.
Once again the open country. Passing under an apple-tree, I pluck an
apple and eat it to quench my thirst.
We cross a bridge. There are three roads before us. The lieutenant
hesitates for a moment and then takes the middle one. No firing
anywhere; perfect calm and silence.
On reaching an elevation, we are greeted with a storm of bullets.
I hear the orders to form a skirmish line, and to set our rifles at the
800 yards range.
Very soon we are being fired at from the front and from both sides. The
lieutenant runs the entire length of the skirmish line. He brings the
men forward in tens, according to regulations. I watch him and feel
certain that he will be shot. No, he continues his course right in the
thick of the bullets.
If only we could see the enemy! But he is safe in his trenches or
hidden in the wood, and is able to fire at us as he pleases.
Lying flat on the grass, for the first time we hear the bullets whistle
past. The enemy's fire, too well directed, sends the earth leaping into
the air all around me. I imagine my head to be as large as a pumpkin.
What a target! Whilst reloading, I notice an ant right in front of me,
scaling some cartridge cases, and the thought comes to me--
"What an advantage to be quite small."
Hearing a cry, I turn my head and see a poor fellow with the blood
streaming from his hand. The wounded man groans--
"_Aie! Aie!_ Just what I expected!"
Then he stands upright. He feels that he has paid his debt and is
now out of the game. It no longer interests him, so off he goes. He
proceeds about a dozen yards towards the rear, and then, of course,
falls dead to the ground, riddled with bullets.
The soldier on my right says--
"Now I'm hit!"
"Where?"
"A flesh wound in the arm. Nothing serious."
I am inquisitive enough to ask--
"Does it hurt?"
"I don't feel anything. For the moment there was a burning sensation.
My arm is quite stiff."
It is the turn of his other neighbour to ask--
"Shall I dress it for you?"
"No, thanks. I had better get back to the rear."
"In that case, hand me your cartridges."
"Of course. I was forgetting."
The wounded man turns over on to his side, and with the bullets hailing
down, quietly begins to empty his cases. His wound troubles him
considerably, and he apologizes for his awkwardness.
"How numb my hand feels!"
Rules are rules, and regulations are regulations. Both soldiers have
learnt, long ago in barracks, that sharpshooters advance in couples.
They know that when one is wounded, the other must dress the wound,
if possible, and in any case take the wounded man's cartridges. They
think this is an opportunity to put into practice what they have learnt
in theory. But what they do not know--and assuredly I am not going
to undeceive them--is that the regulation they are following out was
repealed over two years ago.
A comic interlude. A man, in a panic of fear, refuses to advance. A
bugler, who has just been ordered to take command of the section,
addresses him as follows--
"Forward! or you shall taste the butt-end of my rifle."
Groans and lamentations.
Then the bugler rises to his feet and says--
"Join your comrades ahead."
The other, utterly cowed, begins to crawl along the ground.
"No crawling! On your feet at once; I'll teach you to show the white
feather!"
"You want me to be killed!"
"If you don't go at once, I'll kick you."
He gets up, whining and blubbering. The bugler accompanies him right to
the line.
"Now lie down!"
The bugler, too, sinks to the ground. It is a miracle they were not
both killed.
Meanwhile, the German artillery is beginning to find its mark. We pay
heavily for every step forward; soon all advance is impossible. We are
even compelled to retire when the _mitrailleuses_ are directed upon us.
After our leaps forward we now have to leap backward. A few yards in
a declivity afford us a moment's respite, the balls passing over our
heads. Taking advantage of this, I open my _musette_, hoping to enjoy a
drink, and find that a bullet has smashed the bottle to pieces. Now we
have to climb some rising ground, the German bullets following us all
the way.
The command is heard--
"Fix bayonets! the enemy is in the village. We are outflanked!"
Is this to be a hand-to-hand encounter? Nothing of the kind; the
village is empty. The bayonets are sheathed.
Flinging our rifles over our shoulder, we turn away, firmly persuaded
that, after traversing another hundred yards and finding ourselves once
again in the open, we shall all be shot.
A wounded man, who has preceded us, calls to us as we pass. He is on
his feet, though pale as death. His head is bandaged; there is a fixed
glare in his eyes. The death sweat streams down his face, as he says
hoarsely--
"You're not going to leave me here, are you? Take me away! I am wounded
in three places."
"Come along, then; we'll carry you into this farm."
"No, no! They'll come and finish me. Please don't leave me behind."
One cannot tell the poor fellow that he will be dead before the
Germans arrive. It is courting death for ourselves also, sure enough,
but we take him tenderly by the arm and drag him away with us. Very
speedily the end comes, and we leave him lifeless on the ground.
It is six o'clock. What remains of the section is crossing a field of
oats. The bullets still follow us, also occasional bursts of artillery
firing. We have to pass in and out of the projectiles like ants
making their way between drops of water trickling from the rose of a
watering-pot. The man by my side falls to the ground and lies there
motionless.
Behind me I hear the snort of a shell.
"That one's for me!" I say to myself.
Instinctively I hitch up my haversack over my head. The shell explodes,
and I am lifted into the air. Then I find myself flat on the ground.
A stifling feeling comes over me; I tear off my cravat, coat and
equipment, and I know no more.
It is night before I regain consciousness. Where am I? I stagger to my
feet, but immediately sink to the ground like a drunken man. Rain is
falling, thin but penetrating. The ground on which I lie stretched is a
veritable quagmire. I perceive that my shirt and trousers form my only
covering. My senses are quite confused; surely the whole thing is a
horrible nightmare!
I am shivering all over, and my mouth is full of blood. What am I
doing here all alone in the middle of the night, and half undressed? I
feel myself all over; not a scratch. My watch and knife are in their
place. After all, I am not dreaming. Then memory suddenly returns: the
skirmish-line, the withdrawal under fire, the shell. I look around:
everywhere on the horizon flames are to be seen. An occasional boom of
cannon in the distance. I must have fallen between the lines.
Forward, straight in front of me, come what may. I cross a wood, and
fall into a stream, where I remain for some time in an almost fainting
condition.
The rumbling of carriage wheels makes me prick up my ears. I blindly
feel my way in the direction indicated; I have lost my glasses. A
short-sighted person without his glasses is in the mental condition of
a drowning man. I am at the end of my tether. For three hours I have
been crawling along; the rumblings draw near. Soon I hear the sound
of voices; my heart stands still! What if the language is German! A
good French oath reaches my ears. I run forward; the ground slips from
beneath my feet, and I tumble headlong down a steep path into the midst
of a convoy of stretcher-bearers.
They bundle me into a pair of blankets, as I am now quite helpless. I
ask what time it is: three in the morning. I must have been unconscious
from six o'clock till midnight.
_Wednesday, 26th August._
At daybreak we reach Rambervillers. A major procures for me a _képi_
and an odd coat, and sends me to the hospital.
My one object now is to find a pair of spectacles. The streets are
almost deserted. A few groups here and there, in one of which I notice
a man wearing an eyeglass. Going up to him, I speak of my difficulty.
Sympathetic and understanding, he takes me to an optician. All the
shops are closed: for one reason, because it is seven in the morning;
for another, because, as I am informed, yesterday's battle did not
turn well for us--I suspected this from what happened to myself--and
the Germans might enter Rambervillers to-day. Here is the optician's
place; he has left the town, and his wife is on the point of abandoning
the house and following him. She is quite willing to find me a pair of
spectacles, and offers me a grog in the bargain.
I reach the hospital.
"What am I to do with you?" asks the major. "You will simply be taken
prisoner if the Germans advance. There is an evacuation train at the
station. Off you go!"
This train is still almost empty: a few vans, some of which are fitted
up with stretchers for the more severely wounded, and a number of
third-class or second-class carriages.
I enter one of the vans: three rows of forms, two against each side,
and one in the middle. Between the two sliding doors is an empty space.
I lie down and watch the reinforcements, announced yesterday, pass by.
The men march along gaily and in perfect order.
Desperate fighting is going on a few kilometres away. Wounded soldiers
now pour into the station; they are being brought up direct from the
firing line.
Ha! here comes a man of my own squadron. He is wounded in the arm. On
catching sight of me, he exclaims--
"What! were you not killed?"
"No, I am still alive, you see."
"But you are reported dead. Some of the company saw you fall, hurled to
the ground beneath a 210 shot."
"Is that all?"
The van fills up, but the stretcher-bearers continue to bring others.
"There is no more room here, I suppose?"
"There are already more than forty of us."
"Close up a little. We must find room for every one."
We do the best we can; I lean against the form in such a way that
the sergeant seated in front of me places on it his two injured feet
which have just been hurriedly dressed. It is a shell wound, and the
wrappings are speedily soaked with blood.
There is a man walking to and fro the entire length of the train
outside; his head is bandaged, and his arm in a sling. On being
told to enter the van, he makes a violent gesture of refusal, and
continues his walk along the platform. A maddening performance, though
necessary to numb his terrible sufferings and enable him to retain full
consciousness. And this goes on for four hours.
More stretchers, each bearing a pallid and grimy sufferer. Not a cry or
scream, though occasionally some poor fellow, on being involuntarily
hustled, utters a long-drawn-out "Ah!" and clenches his teeth. A quite
young infantryman lies outstretched between the doors, both legs
swathed in wadding. On asking how he feels, he feebly whispers, "Bien
mal," and shakes his head.
Another squeeze to make room for fresh arrivals. One of these exclaims--
"What numbers of Germans have been killed! They're paying for this, I
can tell you!"
From every corner exclamations are heard approving of the sentiment.
At two o'clock the train begins to move. Ever since dawn the boom of
cannon has been heard without a break. A feverish sensation comes over
me, and I close my eyes.
How hot it is! To obtain a little air and leave as much room as
possible for the more severely wounded, I sit down by the side of a
sergeant-major on the edge of the truck, my legs hanging outside the
carriage.
The firs of the Vosges file past in a seemingly endless procession.
At each station Red-Cross and volunteer nurses bring milk, bread and
tea; frequently also cakes, eggs and preserves. Those of us who can
walk serve the rest, leaving the van and returning with hands full of
provisions.
At nightfall I fling myself on the floor, under a form close to the
wall. Out in the open country, stoppages are frequent. From time to
time the engine-driver's shrill whistles keep the way clear.
_Thursday, 27th August._
The infantry sergeant has stretched his legs and placed his feet on the
form under which I am lying. On awakening, I notice that the blood from
his wound has been streaming over my hair and neck.
About nine o'clock we reach Gray. The men-attendants remove a few
severe cases which must be operated on without delay. One part of the
station has been transformed into a hospital. There are any number of
majors about, and they find plenty to do.
I request permission to return to the depot; since I have no broken
limbs, why should I stay on at the hospital? Accordingly I am sent to
Chalindrey, where I have two hours to wait for the Langres train.
I wonder if I can find a chemist's shop. One is pointed out to me.
The chemist looks me over with considerable suspicion and mistrust. A
shapeless _képi_, a dirty, threadbare coat, and an unshaven face all
covered with mud are not prepossessing features. He asks--
"My dear fellow, what do you do in ordinary times?"
Respect for the journal causes me to hesitate somewhat. But then, this
war excuses everything, and I confess--
"I am on the editorial staff of the _Figaro_, monsieur."
"Indeed? you don't look like it!"
He laughs heartily, introduces his wife, and ... invites me to lunch.
My hosts have three sons at the front; they attend to my wants as
though I were one of these. Then they motor me back to Humes. I cannot
find words to thank them, nor do I know how to tell them that I will
not forget their kindness.
The Hôtel Girardot and _Père Achille_ at the door! He recognizes me.
"A ghost!"
Everybody comes running up.
Reymond, from the loft, thinks he hears my voice. He clambers down and
stands amazed at my cadaverous appearance.
"Can it be you, dear old fellow?" he asks. "Well, well, you are a
pretty sight!"
He grasps my hands; still I can find nothing to say. Then he carries me
off to the lieutenant, the commander, the major.
"Is there a bed for him?" asks the latter.
"Yes."
"Well, let him have it at once, and don't let him be moved. If no
complications show themselves to-morrow, he will be on his feet in
three days."
They hoist me into the loft. "The Spy" has left, and so I take
possession of the folding-bed. Verrier, who has come running up, tucks
me in. A corporal, who knows all about drugs, briskly rubs turpentine
into my skin.
"Anything fresh here?" I ask.
"I should think so. Two days after you left a new detachment was sent
out, including 'the Spy,' Raoul, and Lefranc."
Lefranc was first violin at the Colonne concerts. He would sometimes
come up into our loft and play Ravel and Stravinski for us. Down below
in the stable slept a couple of muleteers. They shouted out--
"Haven't you nearly finished up in the loft? How do you expect us to
sleep with all this squeaking overhead?"
Thereupon Lefranc played a slow drawling valse, and the muleteers
calmed down.
Reymond continues--
"Roberty comes here every day now. It will soon be our turn to leave.
Within a week Humes will probably see no more of us."
"Do you belong to Class 4?"
"Yes."
"Then I must make haste to get well, in which case I may accompany
you."