The earth, in this clear and luminous night, appears in bold relief and one sees between the torn tree trunks, arms reaching out of the ground, arms lifted to the German heaven, and our own dead fallen on this cursed soil of the Eparges—they seem to contemplate the great fête up there——
It is the morrow.
What horrible weather! It is raining in torrents. Everything is soaked. Again we shall have to flounder about in mud up to the middle.
However, it is impossible to complain of your fix when you have flowers in your dugout!
During the morning a heavy detonation shakes the entire hill. It is these German pigs, decidedly, who have exploded the first one. They choose their time well.
Everyone dashes down to lend a hand to our comrades who are on duty. We shall have to reëstablish the trench and evacuate the wounded.
If you attempt to go fast you get nowhere. The mud glues itself to your feet. The ground smells bad.
But it was not serious, only a warning, and soon I am back in the dugout, dripping from the neck down. It is the time to write.