It is so dark that we can scarcely see the back of the comrade in front of us. We march in silence, with our hands on the sheaths of the bayonet and our mask case to prevent the metal striking against the sides of the trench.
It is after two o’clock when we reach the lines. We take our places as best we can, where we can, and with what we can find.
The saps are filled with companies in reserve who will guard the trench while we fight.
We find places against the sides of the trench, in chance dugouts gashed in the parapet. We have to be careful to keep our feet underneath us to avoid having our toes crushed in the incessant coming and going to and fro.
Rifts in the clouds show us that the sky is clearing. It will be fine.
We talk. We weigh optimistically our chances of success. But we have to shout into each other’s ears or we couldn’t hear anything. Above us is the infernal roar of an incessant bombardment.
Our guns have fired some days without interruption. And the men never cease praising the heavy artillery. We have never been supported in this way. How far we are from the days in Champagne! We have confidence, absolute confidence.
Day comes. The sun rises, the bright clear sun, which will be warm soon, rises over the ridge behind us. On the broad, many-colored screen of the sky with its rays of dawning day, the chimney of the distillery at Frameville, still intact and standing as though hurling defiance at the Germans, stands out monumental and black like a gigantic obelisk.
The countryside never stood out so clearly. I note the slightest details with a feeling which can never be effaced. I continue to look persistently to overcome my nervousness and to have something else to think about.
I look....