Suddenly some furious detonations rend the air. Every one is silent. We listen.
“That’s nothing,” say the old-timers, “it’s only our battery firing. But if the Boches answer you will see something!”
“Do they often reply?”
“Hell, yes! Every day. Half of the village is already pounded to pieces.”
“Ouf!”
It is true. A comrade who has been prowling around outside comes back:
“The next farmhouse is demolished. The roof is gone and the walls are like a sieve.”
“Silence!” growl the sergeants. “Go to sleep. You must fall in at five o’clock to-morrow morning.”
The conversations cease. Each one picks out a place, buries himself in the straw, and sinks into sleep as a ship is engulfed by the waves.
It is our first night under fire. Perhaps some of us do not find untroubled slumber, but there is no alarm and to stay awake is useless. Besides, there is nothing to do but sleep. So we sleep.