We have been arranging for this little fête for a long time; there will be quite a lot of us: thirteen or fourteen infantrymen, sappers, artillerists, all old habitués of the sector.
We are taking with us all those who have been sent back for rest. When we pass Mont-sur-les-Côtes, the sentinel stops and becomes pensive at seeing seven or eight officers piled together in the little machine. It is terribly crowded. What loud bursts of laughter! How wonderful life is among young men of the same age who have made the supreme sacrifice of their existence and know the least of that fugitive joy that falls to a soldier's lot.
Each one brings something to the dinner, some have pâté de foie gras, others petits pois, and pastry.
How late it was when our automobile brought us a half-mile from the first line—this is what caused a reprimand from the "general staff" some days later!
The boches are very quiet: not a rifle shot, not a cannon shot. The St. Remy searchlight which generally plays on the Eparges road is out to-night.
We have climbed Eparges hill—we pass through the ruins of the village and they are silhouetted like Christmas eve decorations. The enemy is very near to us and it is drôle to think we have scaled the height to pass an evening, a real live pleasure party.
When we arrive finally at Captain Gunther's dugout, there are cries of joy—. All his staff assist us with the numerous packages. The brave Ménard, with his commanding presence, his flowing mustache and kindly eyes, spares no pains to see that we are settled.
Our dugout has become quite comfortable since the installation of electric lights. Everything is perfect; there is not a hitch.
It is so crowded, elbow to elbow, that we throw off our tunics.