head gently. He added no comments of his own, and I did not feel equal
to any reply. Full of foreboding, I returned to my train and
Wattrelot. He had heard what the engine-driver had told me, and he
said not a word, but looked out into the distance at the fiery sky. We
sat down side by side and said nothing.

So we were retreating. Then all our calculations and dreams were
shattered. All the fine plans we officers had sketched out together
were folly. We were wasting time when, bending over our maps, we
foresaw a skilful advance on the heels of Belgium's invaders, followed
by a huge victory, dearly bought, perhaps, but one that would upset
the German Colossus at a single blow. The whole thing was an illusion.
And I thought what a fool I had been. I thought of my regiment. How
much of it was there left? How many of those good fellows were lying
dead on foreign soil? How many friends should I never see again? For I
imagined things to be worse than they really were. I felt absolutely
despondent. What my mind conjured up was no longer a retreat in good
order but a rout.

The train had begun to move again. The sun had set, and over the
horizon there was but a streak of pale yellow sky lighting up the
country. I sat down in the open doorway with my legs dangling outside,
and as I breathed the first few whiffs of fresh air I felt somewhat
relieved. The calm around was such as to make one forget that we were
at war. Darkness came on by degrees.

Suddenly my heart began to beat faster, and I rose with a nervous
movement. Wattrelot too had started up from the straw he had been
lying on. We both exclaimed in one breath: "Cannon!" It was a mere
distant growl, hardly audible, and yet it was distinct enough to be a