Yesterday evening at five o’clock we received an order to take our positions in the front line to support the attack which the second battalion would make at nine-thirty.
It was raining. It has rained all the time for some months, and we have become accustomed to the mud and dampness.
We left the cantonment at Morcourt at nightfall. We went along the towpath of the canal, across the bridge at Froissy, through the ruins of Éclusier and entered the communication trench which we knew as the “120 long.”
The silent march is accomplished with little difficulty. There is no sound of cannon. Everything is quiet. We reach our positions about midnight—four dugouts camouflaged for the guns of two sections which are to play on the sector; the two other sections remain in the “Servian” trench in reserve at the disposal of the commander.
The lieutenant examines the post established for him. Farther ahead is a communication trench which has been completely overturned and destroyed, now nothing but a great hole. Below is a big tangle of barbed wire, fascines and ripped open sandbags. We can see very well through this jumble and we are installed there.
We can make out the details of the Boche lines through the glass.
“Come. I think it will be all right. But it will be hard. Fortunately, it can’t last long.”
Then we return to the positions for a final inspection.
The emplacements which our guns occupy are round excavations about three yards across and two deep. In the middle nearly on a level with the surrounding ground is a sort of pedestal for the machine gun. The barrel scarcely reaches beyond the hole and it is absolutely invisible at a short distance. The men have proceeded to make a camouflage which resembles the character of the terrain with wickerwork covered by dirt and grass. The many inventions with which they have increased the weight of the machine guns—the shield, sights and periscope—are in their places. The men disdain these additions a little and even neglect to use them unless forced to do so.