The fatigue party rushed out at top speed. Soup spatters from all sides. The rations of wine and coffee will be short. The men disappear in the wood. They are over; they are safe.
Now the German bullets are raging to our left about the hut; rockets go up asking for artillery. In front of our lines close to us explosions rock the ground. Their artillery is firing in the right place. The fatigue party is over but the Boches have another prey. By this time Marseille is stewing away in the ruins of his shelter.
While the shelling lasts we discuss his last feat, safe in the sap, while we munch the last of our cold repast. Then, as dawn begins to appear and we have to return to the cantonment at daybreak, we begin to get ready to go. Before we go we share a bucket of wine which the overloaded fatigue party couldn’t carry in its dash and abandoned.
But a shadow stands before us in the sap.
“So they share their leavings and there is none for the hungry?”
It is Marseille, safe and sound, whole, without a scratch. Everyone crowds around him, and the officer runs up.
“And now, if you’ll pull in that string, you’ll bring back the tools. I’m sore on that machine. You know, Lieutenant, that gun wasn’t our Hotchkiss. I had to dismantle the breech; it jammed at once. I couldn’t have fired more than half a belt. Fortunately, they gave me light with their star shells; I couldn’t have done it without them.”