The hours pass. Impossible to advance. The fusillade, intense to right and left, slackens in front. Some of the men fall asleep on the spot. Night comes on. The cannonade and the firing almost cease. A cold, clear night and a starry sky. Profound calm. Seven o'clock.
The lieutenant orders our half-section back into the trench. The 24th has been dealt with severely—thirty dead and twenty wounded.
Shall we be relieved to-night? It is sufficiently dark for us to move about behind the trenches and remove the numbness from our limbs.
"Look out, Jouin is there," says Parvis.
It is usual to continue to call the dead by their names.
We form a circle round the body, touch one another on the shoulder and shake hands. We are the more conscious of the value of life from the fact that its tenure in our own bodies is so uncertain.
Mignard, a cover flung over his shattered head, still lies at the bottom of the trench. We shall have to raise him and place him by Jouin's side in the field of beetroots, unless we wish to spend the night with him. He is very heavy. The cold touch of his lifeless hands sends a thrill through my whole body.
But very soon sleep alone occupies our thoughts. The lieutenant remains awake. He looks over the parapet without once removing his eyes. Reymond rolls himself in his cover; I do the same. We throw over our bodies the big poncho, and, close pressed to each other, sleep at the bottom of the trench.
Friday, 13th November.
About two in the morning some one gives me a shake—