I get impatient and begin to grumble.
The air becomes fresher, and a fairly strong breeze comes up. In a few seconds the blue sky reappears above our heads.
In front of us forms stand out—trees, shattered trees, stretching their dead branches like broken arms, and seeming to cry to heaven in entreaty for the martyred earth.
“The La Vache woods!”
We are in the La Vache woods within sight of the enemy’s lines. Thirty yards from them! We are on the further side of the trenches, where the terrific storm of shells rages daily. We have the honor of being the finest target that will ever be offered for a shot with a grenade.
We throw ourselves flat, but the embankment overhangs the lines so much that even crawling is only a moderate safeguard.
“Nom de Dieu! I’ll remember your short cut! To go to the Boches it’s the best ever!...”
We slide along on elbows, stomach and knees like snakes, which puts our clothes to a severe test. And we let ourselves fall head first into the “Servian” trench, just over the lieutenant’s sap, who cannot believe his eyes when he sees us fall as from the moon.
“Where did you come from?”