In a
few weeks this wound of mine will be healed and I shall go back, for
the sake of France, to that Hell again. It is Hell, quand meme!"
He analysed his fears with simple candour and confessed that many
times he had suffered most from imaginary terrors. After the German
retreat from Luneville, he was put on a chain of outposts linked up
with the main French lines. It was at night, and as he stood leaning on
his rifle he saw black figures moving towards him. He raised his rifle,
and his finger trembled on the trigger. At the first shot he would
arouse the battalion nearest to him. They were sleeping, but as men
sleep who may be suddenly attacked. They would fire without further
question, and probably he would be the first to die from their bullets.
Was it the enemy? They were coming at right angles to the French
lines. The foremost were even within twenty yards of him now. His
nerves were all trembling. He broke out into a hot sweat. His eyes
straining through the darkness were shot through with pain. He had
almost an irresistible desire to fire and shout out, so as to end the
strain of suspense which racked his soul. At last he gave the
challenge, restraining himself from firing that first shot.
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