In
evil dreams there comes back to me the memory of that flowing
stream of livid, staring, screaming faces upon which I looked
down. It was a nightmare. In victory one does not understand
the horror of war. It is only in the cold chill of defeat that
it is brought home to you. I remember an old Grenadier of the
Guard lying at the side of the road with his broken leg doubled
at a right angle. "Comrades, comrades, keep off my leg!" he
cried, but they tripped and stumbled over him all the same. In
front of me rode a Lancer officer without his coat. His arm had
just been taken off in the ambulance. The bandages had fallen.
It was horrible. Two gunners tried to drive through with their
gun. A Chasseur raised his musket and shot one of them through
the head. I saw a major of Cuirassiers draw his two holster
pistols and shoot first his horse and then himself. Beside the
road a man in a blue coat was raging and raving like a madman.
His face was black with powder, his clothes were torn, one
epaulette was gone, the other hung dangling over his breast.
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