considered himself the most unfortunate of men. He was large, had
difficulty in walking, was short of breath and suffered frightfully with
his feet, which were very flat and very fat. But he was a peaceful,
benevolent man, not warlike or sanguinary, the father of four children
whom he adored, and married to a little blonde whose little tendernesses,
attentions and kisses he recalled with despair every evening. He liked to
rise late and retire early, to eat good things in a leisurely manner and
to drink beer in the saloon. He reflected, besides, that all that is
sweet in existence vanishes with life, and he maintained in his heart a
fearful hatred, instinctive as well as logical, for cannon, rifles,
revolvers and swords, but especially for bayonets, feeling that he was
unable to dodge this dangerous weapon rapidly enough to protect his big
paunch.

And when night fell and he lay on the ground, wrapped in his cape beside
his comrades who were snoring, he thought long and deeply about those he
had left behind and of the dangers in his path. "If he were killed what
would become of the little ones? Who would provide for them and bring
them up?" Just at present they were not rich, although he had borrowed
when he left so as to leave them some money. And Walter Schnaffs wept
when he thought of all this.

At the beginning of a battle his legs became so weak that he would have
fallen if he had not reflected that the entire army would pass over his
body. The whistling of the bullets gave him gooseflesh.

For months he had lived thus in terror and anguish.

His company was marching on Normandy, and one day he was sent to
reconnoitre with a small detachment, simply to explore a portion of the