I get under way with Joseph, who walks very slowly, a little paler than usual, and still taciturn.  Now and again he halts, and his face twitches.  We follow the communication trenches, and a comrade appears suddenly.  It is Volpatte, and he says, “I’m going with you to the foot of the hill.”  As he is off duty, he is wielding a magnificent twisted walking-stick, and he shakes in his hand like castanets the precious pair of scissors that never leaves him.

All three of us come out of the communication trench when the slope of the land allows us to do it without danger of bullets—­the guns are not firing.  As soon as we are outside we stumble upon a gathering of men.  It is raining.  Between the heavy legs planted there like little trees on the gray plain in the mist we see a dead man.  Volpatte edges his way in to the horizontal form upon which these upright ones are waiting; then he turns round violently and shouts to us, “It’s Pepin!”

“Ah!” says Joseph, who is already almost fainting.  He leans on me and we draw near.  Pepin is full length, his feet and hands bent and shriveled, and his rain-washed face is swollen and horribly gray.

A man who holds a pickax and whose sweating face is full of little black trenches, recounts to us the death of Pepin:  “He’d gone into a funk-hole where the Boches had planked themselves, and behold no one knew he was there and they smoked the hole to make sure of cleaning it out, and the poor lad, they found him after the operation, corpsed, and all pulled out like a cat’s innards in the middle of the Boche cold meat that he’d stuck—­and very nicely stuck too, I may say, seeing I was in business as a butcher in the suburbs of Paris.”

“One less to the squad!” says Volpatte as we go away.

We are now on the edge of the ravine at the spot where the plateau begins that our desperate charge traversed last evening, and we cannot recognize it.  This plain, which had then seemed to me quite level, though it really slopes, is an amazing charnel-house.  It swarms with corpses, and might be a cemetery of which the top has been taken away.

Groups of men are moving about it, identifying the dead of last evening and last night, turning the remains over, recognizing them by some detail in spite of their faces.  One of these searchers, kneeling, draws from a dead hand an effaced and mangled photograph—­a portrait killed.

In the distance, black shell-smoke goes up in scrolls. then detonates over the horizon.  The wide and stippled flight of an army of crows sweeps the sky.

Down below among the motionless multitude, and identifiable by their wasting and disfigurement, there are zouaves, tirailleurs, and Foreign Legionaries from the May attack.  The extreme end of our lines was then on Berthonval Wood, five or six kilometers from here.  In that attack, which was one of the most terrible of the war or of any war, those men got here in a single rush.  They thus formed a point too far