“More’s the pity for us.”

The soldier who said that smiled vaguely, lighted by a reflection from the chiefs.  One read in his face an acquiescence which recalled to me certain beautiful smiles I had caught sight of in former days on toilers’ humble faces.  Those who are around me are saying to themselves, “Thus it is written,” and they think no farther than that, massed all mistily in the darkness, like vague hordes of negroes.

Then officers went by of whom we did not speak, because we did not know them.  These unknown tab-bearers made a greater impression than the others; and besides, their importance and their power were increasing.  We saw rows of increasing crowns on the caps.  Then, the shadow-men were silent.  The eulogy and the censure addressed to those whom one had seen at work had no hold on these, and all those minor things faded away.  These were admired in the lump.

This superstition made me smile.  But the general of the division himself appeared in almost sacred isolation.  The tabs and thunderbolts[1] and stripes of his satellites glittered at a respectful distance only.  Then it seemed to me that I was face to face with Fate itself—­the will of this man.  In his presence a sort of instinct dazzled me.

[Footnote 1:  Distinctive badge for Staff officers and others.—­Tr.]

“Packs up!  Forward!”

We took back upon our hips and neck the knapsack which had the shape and the weight of a yoke, which every minute that falls on it weighs down more dourly.  The common march went on again.  It filled a great space; it shook the rocky slopes with its weight.  In vain I bent my head—­I could not hear the sound of my own steps, so blended was it with the others.  And I repeated obstinately to myself that one had to admire the intelligent force which sets all this deep mass in movement, which says to us or makes us say, “Forward!” or “It has to be!” or “You will not know!” which hurls the world we are into a whirlpool so great that we do not even see the direction of our fall, into profundities we cannot see because they are profound.  We have need of masters who know all that we do not know.

* * * * * *

Our weariness so increased and overflowed that it seemed as if we grew bigger at every step!  And then one no longer thought of fatigue.  We had forgotten it, as we had forgotten the number of the days and even their names.  Always we made one step more, always.

Ah, the infantry soldiers, the pitiful Wandering Jews who are always marching!  They march mathematically, in rows of four numbers, or in file in the trenches, four-squared by their iron load, but separate, separate.  Bent forward they go, almost prostrated, trailing their legs, kicking the dead.  Slowly, little by little, they are wounded by the length of time, by the incalculable repetition of movements, by the greatness of things.  They are borne down by their bones and muscles, by their own human weight.  At halts of only ten minutes, they sink down.  “There’s no time to sleep!” “No matter,” they say, and they go to sleep as happy people do.