War befouls the country as it does faces and hearts.
Our company gets going, gray and wan, broken down by the infamous weariness.

We halt in front of a hangar:-- "Those that are tired can leave their packs," the new sergeant advises; "they'll find them again here." "If we're leaving our packs, it means we're going to attack," says an ancient.
He says it, but he does not know.
One by one, on the dirty soil of the hangar, the knapsacks fall like bodies.

Some men, however, are mistrustful, and prefer to keep their packs.

Under all circumstances there are always exceptions.
Forward! The same shouts put us again in movement.

Forward! Come, get up! Come on, march! Subdue your refractory flesh; lift yourselves from your slumber as from a coffin, begin yourselves again without ceasing, give all that you can give--Forward! Forward! It has to be.
It is a higher concern than yours, a law from above.