I looked about for them in the line of skirmishers.  I tried to distinguish them among all the backs and necks lying before me.  And I very soon guessed that they were at the extreme right of the troop, for I heard smothered laughter at that corner; evidently Ladoucette was cracking some of the highly-spiced jokes characteristic of him.  Yes, I saw his head lifted above the grass on the slope, his bristling moustache, his brilliant eyes, and sarcastic mouth.  I could not hear what he was saying, for the firing was still furious, but I saw from the smiling faces of his neighbours that he had, as usual, found the right word for the occasion, the word that provokes laughter under bullet fire and makes men forget danger.  Not far from him his inseparable chum, Roger, guffawed appreciatively, and seemed to be enjoying himself thoroughly.  I rejoiced to think that I had got two first-rate recruits, worthy to fight side by side with the fine fellows of my brave troop.

Suddenly a dark figure emerged from the wood, then two more, then another three, then more.  Was it the enemy?  Without waiting for the word of command some of the men pointed their rifles at the mysterious shadows running in single file towards us.

        “Don’t fire!  Don’t fire!”

We had, fortunately, recognised the uniform of our infantry Chasseurs.  But this increased rather than allayed our anxiety.  We naturally imagined the direst catastrophes and feared the most terrible consequences when we saw those in whom we had trusted, those who occupied the trenches nearest to Bixschoote, beating a retreat.  The first of the fugitives came up to us.  They seemed completely demoralised.  Haggard, ragged, and black with dust, they crossed the road at a run.  We tried in vain to stop them.  As they passed us they shouted something unintelligible, of which we could catch nothing but the words: 

“They’re coming, ... they’re coming.”

Together with O., I succeeded in stopping two men, who were going along less rapidly, supporting a wounded comrade who was groaning and dragging himself on one leg.

“Our flank was turned; there are thousands of them.  They came through the village and enfiladed us.  We had a great many killed ... our officer wounded.  We must get back further to the rear.”

As they went off haltingly with their comrade, whose groans were pitiable to hear, the tall figure of a lieutenant of foot Chasseurs rose suddenly before us.  He looked like a ghost, and for a moment we thought he was about to fall, an exhausted mass, at our feet.  His face was covered with blood.  The red mask in which the white of the eyes formed two brilliant spots was horrible to see.  His torn tunic and all his clothing were saturated with blood.  He was gesticulating wildly with the revolver he clutched in his hands, and seemed absolutely distraught.

As he passed the Major seized him by the arm: 

“Halt! halt!  Look here, you must rally your men.  We can put up a good defence here.”