Two o’clock p.m.—The French guns are beginning to shell the enemy. The batteries are landing shell just in front of our trench and so near that I am beginning to think that there must be an error in the range. The mere fact of having to wait is a torture, to know nothing and to say, “Is it to be in five minutes, this evening or to-morrow?” My heart beats hard and my throat is dry. I would give anything for the order to attack, for I know that then I should at once recover my calm.
The four sections have orders to advance to their front towards the Lens road, to take the German trenches and then make for Hill 70 by way of Loos. I distributed some asphyxiating bombs, hand grenades to my section, and little bags containing cotton previously soaked in a bisulphite and which must be dipped again into lime water at the last moment and introduced into the mouth and nostrils to neutralise the effects of asphyxiating gas.
Four o’clock.—The shelling is still going on, but it has lost the unheard-of violence with which it started. The remainder of the guns are to arrive to-night and consequently the attack cannot take place before to-morrow.
Everyone is at work; the Engineers are making steps and finishing saps; Artillerymen walk about in the communication trenches with range-finders with which they accomplish mysterious rites, asking me politely to move as I am in the way. Officers of all battalions are reconnoitring the sector, and the men are sewing bits of white canvas on their packs so that they may be recognized at a distance by our artillery. One would say that a costume play was in course of being mounted and that the last preparations were being made for the opening performance.
At ten minutes to nine I returned to my command post. I examined my revolver carefully, took off my tunic and put my money and my papers in my trousers pocket. I slipped my cloak on over my shirt, put my revolver in the inside pocket and I got out of the trench. I gave a last warning to my men not to fire, even if they heard firing.
Stivalet was there; we got over the parapet at nine o’clock exactly, and we had chosen a bit of known ground between two chevaux de frise. It was very dark; scarcely had we started than a star shell lit up the sky. We threw ourselves flat on the ground on our faces. I felt the wet grass and moist soil on my cheeks and on the palms of my hands. I listened to my breathing and I could not feel the beatings of my heart. I was perfectly calm.
For two or three minutes we groped our way across the wire of the chevaux de frise. When we had passed it we came on an old network of rusted barbed wire all broken up by shell fire, and our feet and cloaks got entangled in it. We crawled on our hands and knees and each time that a star shell burst we threw ourselves flat, as before.
The critical moment had arrived. Stivalet hailed me in a low voice, “This is a rotten trip we are making.” He whispered in my ear, “It is too dark, we shall see nothing.” I said to him, “All right, you stay here, I am going farther on.”
I crawled on alone. I felt perturbed at being alone in the black night with all these rifle muzzles pointed at me. I was at the mercy of a flare. I went on as well as I could, without a sound, trying to blend with the ground. I went on for I don’t know how long or how far. Then I looked up and I saw the German entanglements close beside me. I distinctly heard talking going on; unfortunately I did not understand a word of it. There was no object in delaying further, my mission was over. I had seen their defences; they were only chevaux de frise, united by barbed wire. As I turned, two rockets went off and crossed. I thought that I was lost and I stayed still with my head on my arms and my face to the ground, biting the grass; but nothing happened; not a shot was fired.