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August 22, 1914. A salvo bursts over the road. A horseman quits his stirrups, rolls off his mount, lies still. Quickly, going back from the effect to the cause, we become conscious of impending danger. This first victim, this hussar done away within a second, disconcerts us. We knew there were some killed in every battle, and yet we were all in such a joyous state of unconcern that we were dumbfounded in the presence of this sudden misfortune. I see the smile congeal on the lips of my comrades... More explosins. The balls rain, ricochet on the mess bowls, a canteen is pierced, squirts out its wine; a fuse hums for a long time in the air. With my head under my pack, I cast a glance at my neighbors; breathless, shaken by nervous tremblings, their mouths are contracted in a hideous grin, their teeth are chattering; their faces convulsed with terror recall the grotesque gargoyles of Notre-Dame; prostrate in this bizarre position, with arms crossed on their chests and heads down, they look like condemned men offering their necks to the executioner.'
A French soldier recalls his first experience of war.