The shells come. The
dirt flies: holes to bury an ox? One can see them coming:
zzz--boom! There is time to get out of the way.
Arrived at the edge of the woods, we separate as scouts. We
are ordered to advance. But, mind you, they already have our
range. The artillery makes things hum. My bugler, near me, is
killed instantly; he has not said a word, poor boy! I am
wounded in the leg. It is about two o'clock. As I cannot drag
myself further, a comrade, before leaving, hides me under
three sheaves of straw with my head under my knapsack. The
shells have peppered it full of holes, that poor sack. Without
it--ten yards away a comrade, who had his leg broken and a
piece of shell in his arm, received seven or eight more
wounds.
I stayed there all day. In the evening the soldiers of the
101st took me into the woods, where there were several French
wounded and a German Captain, wounded the evening before. He
was suffering too, poor wretch. About midnight the French
soldiers came to seek those who were transportable. They left
only my comrade, myself and the German Captain. There were
other wounded further along, and we heard their cries.
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