I elbow my way along the marching crowd as far as
Marchal's squad, the most sorely tried of all. Out of eleven
comrades that they were, and had been without a break for a year and
a half, there were three men only with Corporal Marchal.
He sees me--with a glad exclamation and a broad smile. He lets go
his rifle-sling and offers me his hands, from one of which hangs his
trench stick--"Eh, vieux frere, still going strong? What's
become of you lately?"
I turn my head away and say, almost under my breath, "So, old chap,
it's happened badly."
His smile dies at once, and he is serious: "Eh, oui, old man; it
can't be helped; it was awful this time. Barbier is killed."
"They told us--Barbier!"
"Saturday night it was, at eleven o'clock. He had the top of his
back taken away by a shell," says Marchal, "cut off like a razor.
Besse got a bit of shell that went clean through his belly and
stomach. Barthlemy and Baubex got it in the head and neck. We passed
the night skedaddling up and down the trench at full speed, to dodge
the showers. And little Godefroy--did you know him?--middle of his
body blown away. He was emptied of blood on the spot in an instant,
like a bucket kicked over. Little as he was, it was remarkable how
much blood he had, it made a stream at least fifty meters long.
Gougnard got his legs cut up by one explosion. They picked him up
not quite dead. That was at the listening post. I was there on duty
with them.
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