Five minutes afterwards, alarm! Everybody is on his feet. The attack is to take place at dawn. We silently leave the grotto. The two patrols whose duty it is to crawl to the enemy's barbed-wire are appointed. They start, escorted by engineers, who carry large white petards nailed to planks.
The section penetrates into a broad, deep branch, dug by the English a month ago. Endless zigzags. Finally we reach a path lined with lofty poplars. It is pitch-dark and very cold. We tumble into holes, and feel about for corners where we may sit down and take a moment's breath. The ground is covered with frozen mud. Where are we? Where is the enemy?
An order is whispered round—
"When you hear an explosion, you must jump out of the trench and run forward as fast as you can. Pass on the order."
We pass it on. What is most troublesome in an attack is the waiting part. I sit down against a tree and lean on my haversack, which I do not remove. My feet are in a hole. Maxime and I press against each other for support and warmth. We fall into a deep sleep. Another Sunday wasted!
Monday, 9th November.
We awake at dawn and rub our eyes. Well! What of the attack?
"There has been no attack without us," says Maxence.
It has not taken place, after all. The adjutant at the head of the patrol recognized the impossibility of reaching the German wires unseen. Belin was right; the programme could not be realized.... We must try something else.
We find ourselves in a ravine close to the road leading to Maubeuge; in front is a field of beetroots, lying amongst which are the bodies of two Zouaves. The ravine has been converted into a trench by the English, who have constructed here and there little straw-thatched huts. Though the rain has stopped, we splash about in the mud; the mist is icy-cold. We try to keep out the cold with mufflers, gloves, passe-montagne; but—how are we to warm our poor feet? It is useless to stamp the soles of our boots on the ground, or knock them against the trunk of a tree. The soup reaches us in a congealed condition.