Once, in consequence of a command badly given or badly understood, the company wavered, flowed back and pawed the ground in disorder on the declivity.  Fifty men, who were all alike by reason of their sheepskins ran here and there and one by one—­a vague collection of evasive men, small and frail, not knowing what to do; while non-coms ran round them, abused and gathered them.  Order began again, and against the whitish and bluish sheets spread by the star-shells I saw the pendulums of the step once more fall into line under the long body of shadows.

During the night there was a distribution of brandy.  By the light of lanterns we saw the cups held out, shaking and gleaming.  The libation drew from our entrails a moment of delight and uplifting.  The liquid’s fierce flow awoke deep impulses, restored the martial mien to us, and made us grasp our rifles with a victorious desire to kill.

But the night was longer than that dream.  Soon, the kind of goddess superposed on our shadows left our hands and our heads, and that thrill of glory was of no use.

Indeed, its memory filled our hearts with a sort of bitterness.  “You see, there’s no trenches anywhere about here,” grumbled the men.

“And why are there no trenches?” said a wrongheaded man; “why, it’s because they don’t care a damn for soldiers’ lives.”

“Fathead!” the corporal interrupted; “what’s the good of trenches behind, if there’s one in front, fathead!”

* * * * * *

“Halt!”

We saw the Divisional Staff go by in the beam of a searchlight.  In that valley of night it might have been a procession of princes rising from a subterranean palace.  On cuffs and sleeves and collars badges wagged and shone, golden aureoles encircled the heads of this group of apparitions.

The flashing made us start and awoke us forcibly, as it did the night.

The men had been pressed back upon the side of the sunken hollow to clear the way; and they watched, blended with the solidity of the dark.  Each great person in his turn pierced the fan of moted sunshine, and each was lighted up for some paces.  Hidden and abashed, the shadow-soldiers began to speak in very low voices of those who went by like torches.

They who passed first, guiding the Staff, were the company and battalion officers.  We knew them.  The quiet comments breathed from the darkness were composed either of praises or curses; these were good and clear-sighted officers; those were triflers or skulkers.

“That’s one that’s killed some men!”

“That’s one I’d be killed for!”

“The infantry officer who really does all he ought,” Pelican declared, “well, he get’s killed.”

“Or else he’s lucky.”

“There’s black and there’s white in the company officers.  At bottom you know, I say they’re men.  It’s just a chance you’ve got whether you tumble on the good or the bad sort.  No good worrying.  It’s just luck.”