“I’m not warm.”
“A drop of brandy?”
“Sure.”
The lieutenant passes his canteen to me and as I drink the thin stream from its mouth I feel a wave of warmth.
Light comes, but it is very pale. Around us we hear the tread of feet on the hard ground and the slapping of arms across the chest.
We wait nervously. Presently we receive an order not to fire until the blast of the whistle.
Eight o’clock! Behind us, in the limpid azure, the red disk of the sun rises.
A shell cuts through the air; then another; then still another. Our artillery is firing on the Boche lines.
“Attention.” The response is instantaneous. We can still see no movement in the ranks of the infantry to our right whose rush we are to support. What are they waiting for? The men are nervous and they start to grumble.