I have neighbors who are unknown to me, motley men, routed and stupefied, artillery and engineers; unknown men who come and go away, who seem to be born and seem to die.
At one time we get a glimpse of some confusion in the orders from above.

A Staff officer, issuing from no one knew where, throws himself in front of us, bars our way, and questions us in a tragic voice:-- "What are you miserable men doing?
Are you running away?
Forward in the name of France! I call upon you to return.

Forward!" The soldiers, who would never have thought of retiring without orders, are stunned, and can make nothing of it.
"We're going back because they told us to go back." But they obey.

They turn right about face.

Some of them have already begun to march forward, and they call to their comrades:-- "Hey there! This way, it seems!" But the order to retire returns definitely, and we obey once more, fuming against those who do not know what they say; and the ebb carries away with it the officer who shouted amiss.
The march speeds up, it becomes precipitate and haggard.