To-day the sun is atrociously hot and the river Yser and the canals exhale nauseating puffs from decaying bodies and carrion flesh which are not very agreeable to the nostrils.
Toward nightfall I found an ideal spot to rest: the Sub-commandant's Post North, on the road to Lombaertzyde.
I am comfortably seated in a wicker armchair by the side of Commandant Martel and we have seen the penumbra deepen as darkness falls. Jupiter sparkles in the heavens; in the distance vagrant flashes of fire appear like a lingering hunting party.
We are waiting for a squad of Territorials to bring up several portable storage batteries (Vedovelli's system) to light the commandant's post. They were contained in cumbersome boxes and the good man had provided adjustable handles in order to make the work easier for the men. These he had shown to us.
But I was not a bit surprised when my Territorials did not arrive at the appointed time, because, in spite of Vedovelli's "handles," the boxes were so heavy as to be scarcely movable.
Finally I saw two of them coming, dripping with sweat, puffing, their eyes bulging, equipped naturally with their packs and with warm winter clothing for the approaching winter campaign.
At last they arrived. Letting the box with the adjustable handles fall brutally, they cried in unison as if compensated for the load:
"Nom de Dieu de tous les noms de Dieu, I hope this damned box with its dirty handles bursts in the inventor's stomach!"
A SHELL IN MY HOME, NIEUPORT.
August, 1915.