It was almost impossible to recognize the commander in his bizarre garb, wrapped in a canvas instead of a waterproof, his steel helmet covered with mud, as he wandered up and down the trenches, with a kind word of encouragement for each one.
In the “Servian” trench there was an exposed passage to the German lines. They had blocked this up by piles of sandbags, chevaux de frise, and rolls of barbed wire.
As a greater precaution, a sentry was stationed there night and day. He was sleeping deeply when the commander came by. He had to shake him vigorously to wake him up.
“Say, do you sleep like that when you’re sentry?”
“I ... it’s true ... I was asleep.”
“That’s not serious. Try hard, if an officer should come along, you’d not get off with advice.”
“They won’t come along; they’re all snoozing in their dugouts.”
“Oh, you never know.”
“Well, I’m going mad sooner or later. I haven’t slept a wink for three nights. If the Boches are as tired as I am they won’t come to wake us up.”
As he talked, his voice was drawn out more and more and his head nodded. He was dead with sleep....