wounded--one in three less in four days. And this without attack--by
bombardment alone.

This is known to us, and as the mutilated battalion approaches down
there, and we join them in trampling the muddy field and exchanging
nods of recognition, we cry, "What about the 18th?" We are thinking
as we put the question, "If it goes on like this, what is to become
of all of us? What will become of me?"

The 17th, the 19th, and the 20th arrive in turn and pile arms.
"There's the 18th!" It arrives after all the others; having held the
first trench, it has been last relieved.

The light is a little cleaner, and the world is paling. We can make
out, as he comes down the road, the company's captain, ahead of his
men and alone. He helps himself along with a stick, and walks with
difficulty, by reason of his old wound of the Marne battle that
rheumatism is troubling; and there are other pangs, too. He lowers
his hooded head, and might be attending a funeral. We can see that
in his mind he is indeed following the dead, and his thoughts are
with them.

Here is the company, debouching in dire disorder, and our hearts are
heavy. It is obviously shorter than the other three, in the march
past of the battalion.

I reach the road, and confront the descending mass of the 18th. The
uniforms of these survivors are all earth-yellowed alike, so that
they appear to be clad in khaki. The cloth is stiff with the
ochreous mud that has dried underneath. The skirts of their