The fatigue party has been watched and waited for.
We hold a council of the non-commissioned officers and the lieutenant of the Territorials which has held the position for several weeks. Various stratagems are proposed and we weigh the chances, but after consideration all of them are vetoed. It is impossible to get by even at the greatest speed without risking the lives of several men, and perhaps of all.
Still, if we were able to draw the attention of the Boches, to occupy them with something else, to enfilade them, to shell them.
“Enfilade them ... shell them....”
“Isn’t there some place from which we can enfilade them?”
And we all considered in our minds the position of the Boche trenches.
“We can’t do anything from here,” said a sergeant who had spent various periods in these trenches for several months, and knew every corner of it; “but below there to the left, about a hundred yards from the picket post, is a ruined cabin which dominates everything. But there’s nothing doing in getting there; it’s too near; they’d see us as plain as day.”
One of our men heard all this. And while the conversation went on, I saw him climb up on the parapet and examine the position.
It was Marseille, an impetuous, headstrong type. He rebelled at all discipline, he was restive under observation, but his bravery was unfailing, and he was absolutely oblivious to danger, which he ignored with a swagger and indifference which seemed amazing. Marseille has known one hundred thousand adventures and turned one hundred thousand tricks, and has always come back absolutely unharmed.