They debouched from every cross-road. There were French, Belgians and English, the latter whistling in chorus, “It’s a long long way to Tipperary,” and keeping step to it. As soon as they saw us by common accord they started the Marseillaise—a charming courtesy—and strange and rapid dialogues were exchanged between the “poilus” and the “Tommies” in a language so untranslatable, so indescribable, that most of the men burst out laughing at hearing themselves speak. Then some guns crossed the place at the trot making a deafening noise.
Every unit had its destination, its appointed place and perfect order prevailed. Those back from the trenches are glad at the prospect of rest; those going there are light-hearted also, and so the active ant-heap swarms with busy people.
From time to time shell would fall in the town, crumbling still further the marvellous Cloth Hall or causing irreparable damage to the humble house of some inoffensive civilian. It was stupid and useless.
From Zonnebeck onwards the ground was swept by rifle fire, and we had to cross a horseshoe sector exposed to fire from all sides. It was impossible to find cover, and the relief was extremely difficult and dangerous. Then it was that I made acquaintance with the new and the unknown.
New trenches, new customs. We groped our way through a little pine wood. Every now and then a bullet struck the trunk of a tree with such a loud and sharp sound that the drum of one’s ear was all but torn. Insensibly the company advanced along the cutting which got deeper and deeper under ground. Soon one was in up to the shoulders, and the deeper the communication trench got the deeper we got into mud and water. I pretended to myself that we were figures in some “attraction” at Luna Park or the Magic City. We were in a labyrinth which turned to the right and left, doubled back on itself and got deeper and more difficult at each step, while “the bees” passed whistling over our heads.
There was a sudden stop, just as I had given up hope of ever seeing the end. The section in front of me emerged into a trench, and a ray of light fell on the wet clay at my feet. A form leaned out of a hole, and a voice said to me, “This way, sir; this is your command post.” Hardly had I entered when the curtain which masked the door fell again, to shut in the light. I found myself in a tiny square room constructed entirely of rough logs, that is to say of the trunks of pine trees. It was buried under a mountain of earth, very solidly beaten down, and it had a brick fireplace in which a good coke fire blazed (within 100 mètres of the enemy). There was a bed, or rather a straw mattress, which exactly filled up the middle of this “casba.” The other half was taken up by a stand on which were ranged miscellaneous objects—gum boots, tin boxes, grenades, petards, flares, etc. One could not stand up, but lying down one felt like a king.
The network of trenches which unites the sections was so complicated that I lost myself in it every time. In the early morning I made a reconnaissance of the neighbouring sections. At places the parapet became so low that, even by stooping, one was not completely under cover. My presence was hailed by a salvo which passed whistling over my head.
24th February, 1915.—It snowed last night. The trenches are white and my “poilus” are cold. And so am I! A man of my section has just been wounded in the head by a bullet which ricochetted off a bayonet. But, generally speaking, the Germans leave us in peace.
Six o’clock.—My trench has been demolished in part by a “105.” We shall have to work all night to repair it.