Forward!  Our nights are torn from us in lots.  The bodies, invaded by caressing poison, and even by confidences and apparitions, shake themselves and stand up again.  We extricate ourselves from the hole, and emerge from the density of buried breath; stumbling we climb into icy space, odorless, infinite space.  The oscillation of the march, assailed on both sides by the trench, brings brief and paltry halts, in which we recline against the walls, or cast ourselves on them.  We embrace the earth, since nothing else is left us to embrace.

Then Movement seizes us again.  Metrified by regular jolts, by the shock of each step, by our prisoned breathing, it loses its hold no more, but becomes incarnate in us.  It sets one small word resounding in our heads, between our teeth—­“Forward!”—­longer, more infinite than the uproar of the shells.  It sets us making, towards the east or towards the north, bounds which are days and nights in length.  It turns us into a chain which rolls along with a sound of steel—­the metallic hammering of rifle, bayonet, cartridges, and of the tin cup which shines on the dark masses like a bolt.  Wheels, gearing, machinery!  One sees life and the reality of things striking and consuming and forging each other.

We knew well enough that we were going towards some tragedy that the chiefs knew of; but the tragedy was above all in the going there.

* * * * * *

We changed country.  We left the trenches and climbed out upon the earth—­along a great incline which hid the enemy horizon from us and protected us against him.  The blackening dampness turned the cold into a thing, and laid frozen shudders on us.  A pestilence surrounded us, wide and vague; and sometimes lines of pale crosses alongside our march spelled out death in a more precise way.

It was our tenth night; it was at the end of all our nights, and it seemed greater than they.  The distances groaned, roared and growled, and would sometimes abruptly define the crest of the incline among the winding sheets of the mists.  The intermittent flutters of light showed me the soldier who marched in front of me.  My eyes, resting in fixity on him, discovered his sheepskin coat, his waist-belt, straining at the shoulder-straps, dragged by the metal-packed cartridge pouches, by the bayonet, by the trench-tool; his round bags, pushed backwards; his swathed and hooded rifle; his knapsack, packed lengthways so as not to give a handle to the earth which goes by on either side; the blanket, the quilt, the tentcloth, folded accordion-wise on the top of each other, and the whole surmounted by the mess-tin, ringing like a mournful bell, higher than his head.  What a huge, heavy and mighty mass the armed soldier is, near at hand and when one is looking at nothing else!