The light is a little cleaner, and the world is paling. We can make
out, as he comes down the road, the company's captain, ahead of his
men and alone. He helps himself along with a stick, and walks with
difficulty, by reason of his old wound of the Marne battle that
rheumatism is troubling; and there are other pangs, too. He lowers
his hooded head, and might be attending a funeral. We can see that
in his mind he is indeed following the dead, and his thoughts are
with them.
Here is the company, debouching in dire disorder, and our hearts are
heavy. It is obviously shorter than the other three, in the march
past of the battalion.
I reach the road, and confront the descending mass of the 18th. The
uniforms of these survivors are all earth-yellowed alike, so that
they appear to be clad in khaki. The cloth is stiff with the
ochreous mud that has dried underneath. The skirts of their
greatcoats are like lumps of wood, jumping about on the yellow crust
that reaches to their knees. Their faces are drawn and blackened;
dust and dirt have wrinkled them anew; their eyes are big and
fevered. And from these soldiers whom the depths of horror have
given back there rises a deafening din. They talk all at once, and
loudly; they gesticulate, they laugh and sing. You would think, to
see them, that it was a holiday crowd pouring over the road!
These are the second section and its big sub-lieutenant, whose
greatcoat is tightened and strapped around a body as stiff as a
rolled umbrella.
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