Bombs strung on wire
hoops are distributed--"Let each man take two bombs!"
The major goes by. He is restrained in his gestures, in undress,
girded, undecorated. We hear him say, "There's something good, mes
enfants, the Boches are clearing out. You'll get along all right,
eh?"
News passes among us like a breeze. "The Moroccans and the 21st
Company are in front of us. The attack is launched on our right."
The corporals are summoned to the captain, and return with armsful
of steel things. Bertrand is fingering me; he hooks something on to
a button of my greatcoat. It is a kitchen knife. "I'm putting this
on to your coat," he says.
"Me too!" says Pepin.
"No," says Bertrand, "it's forbidden to take volunteers for these
things."
"Be damned to you!" growls Pepin.
We wait, in the great rainy and shot-hammered space that has no
other boundary than the distant and tremendous cannonade. Bertrand
has finished his distribution and returns. Several soldiers have sat
down, and some of them are yawning.
The cyclist Billette slips through in front of us, carrying an
officer's waterproof on his arm and obviously averting his face.
"Hullo, aren't you going too?" Cocon cries to him.
"No, I'm not going," says the other. "I'm in the 17th. The Fifth
Battalion's not attacking!"
"Ah, they've always got the luck, the Fifth. They've never got to
fight like we have!" Billette is already in the distance, and a few
grimaces follow his disappearance.
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