At three o'clock, en route for the trenches. The men say to one another—
"We are off at last."
For the moment at least the company is to support the batteries installed in the wood above the road from Bucy to Margival. The 75's are booming away. What is going to happen? Nothing at all. Night falls. We sit or lie on the ground along the road awaiting orders, chatting, smoking, and jesting to kill time. Milliard and Henriot mount the hill. We prepare to receive them. But how is it that they are armed and equipped? Above all, why do they come empty-handed? And that, just at the time we expect our letters? Milliard simply remarks—
"Well, we're here."
Henriot is in one of his silent moods; we can get nothing out of him.
"Where are the letters?"
"Letters, letters," says Milliard, irritated, "you all think of nothing but your letters."
This reply fills us with consternation. Something serious must have happened for our postman to speak in this strain.
Some one remarks peevishly—
"The company is to attack this evening or to-morrow morning. If any one gets a bullet through the head and dies without receiving his letters it will be all your fault."