"Who goes there?"
"France!"
Some _poilus_ hastily cross a part of the trench at the border of the
Wood. The officer in command of them is one of my old comrades at
Eparges----
"Tell me the news. How is it going?"
"I was going to ask the same question?"
"It's the third day. The attack will be held!"
"Yes, it must be held!"
We embraced each other and parted--I have never seen him again!
ON THE ROAD FROM CHAMBRETTES TO LOUVEMONT.
_February_ 23, 1916.
Two men go along the road with a heavy step--we follow them.
"It's serious--but we'll get 'em. What an attack!"
"What a difference from Champagne!"
They stopped before a corpse, curled in a heap; he had certainly fallen
to-day because we had not noticed him yesterday. With his big bloated
lips and blackened face he might have been taken for a negro----
"How curious is the problem of life and death! Why him and not us?"
"Poor chap, poor old fellow. Let's go----"
THE POILU WHO HADN'T ANY SUSPENDERS.
_The day of February_ 24, 1916.
The cannonade is frightful. There is a dumbfounding fire along the
route--and we are right in the midst of the stricken zone.
"Look out, my friend, please don't stop, we'll all be shot to
pieces----"
"I must pull up my pants--they've fallen down--I haven't got any
suspenders----"
"You are not even reasonable--during such days we are living in
historic moments--you can use twine just as well----"
THE PSYCHOLOGICAL POILU, ORNES.
_February_ 24, 1916.