A SPECTACLE OF THE WAR, NIEUPORT.
_September_, 1915.
I lunched for the last time with my friend Reymond. He is accompanying
me to Brigade Headquarters of the Marine Fusiliers, where I must say
good-by, because, to-morrow, I leave for another sector.
We are in the principal street of Nieuport and are only a short
distance from our objective when a frightful detonation rends the air a
few steps away.
Dense clouds of smoke envelop everything. A few steps more, and we see
a very sad spectacle. Four 105's, two timed shell and two percussion,
break in the midst of a group of workers--forty or more Zouaves are on
the ground, wounded or dead----
_Parbleu!_ it was like a sight at the Great Dune, on a similar
occasion; one could not help but see, like the nose on your
face----What indifference!
A Zouave, short and stocky, yelling and waving his arms madly--he is
all bloody--he must have gone crazy----