Then there came a day warmer than the rest and less rainy. Hugo was riding toward the lines on a camion. He rode as much as possible now. He had not slept for two days. His eyes were red and twitching. He felt tired—tired as if his fatigue were the beginning of death—tired so that nothing counted or mattered—tired of killing, of hating, of suffering—tired even of an ideal that had tarnished through long weathering. The camion was steel and it rattled and bumped as it moved over the road. Hugo lay flat in it, trying to close his eyes.

After a time, moving between the stumps of a row of poplars, they came abreast of a regiment returning from the battle. They walked slowly and dazedly. Each individual was still amazed at being alive after the things he had witnessed. Hugo raised himself and looked at them. The same expression had often been on the faces of the French. The long line of the regiment ended. Then there was an empty place on the road, and the speed of the truck increased.

Finally it stopped with a sharp jar, and the driver shouted that he could go no farther. Hugo clambered to the ground. He estimated that the battery toward which he was travelling was a mile farther. He began to walk. There was none of the former lunge and stride in his steps. He trudged, rather, his head bent forward. A little file of men approached him, and, even at a distance, he did not need a second glance to identify them. Walking wounded.

By ones and twos they began to pass him. He paid scant attention. Their field dressings were stained with the blood that their progress cost. They cursed and muttered. Someone had given them cigarettes, and a dozen wisps of smoke rose from each group. It was not until he reached the end of the straggling line that he looked up. Then he saw one man whose arms were both under bandage walking with another whose eyes were covered and whose hand, resting on his companion’s shoulder, guided his stumbling feet.

Hugo viewed them as they came on and presently heard their conversation. “Christ, it hurts,” one of them said.

“The devil with hurting, boy,” the blinded man answered. “So do I, for that matter. I feel like there was a hot poker in my brains.”

“Want another butt?”

“No, thanks. Makes me kind of sick to drag on them. Wish I had a drink, though.”

“Who doesn’t?”

Hugo heard his voice. “Hey, you guys,” it said. “Here’s some water. And a shot of cognac, too.”

The first man stopped and the blind man ran into him, bumping his head. He gasped with pain, but his lips smiled. “Damn nice of you, whoever you are.”