Tuesday, 17th November.
As we are resting we become somewhat like civilians, and await the news with an anxiety unknown at the front, where one's horizon is limited to a field of beetroots.
The papers bring fresh details of the frightful battles of the Yser. The German offensive seems to have been broken. What will they attempt now?
This morning our attack of the 12th is honoured by the following communiqué: "We have made slight progress between Crouy and Vregny." Multum in parvo. Here's something to make us proud, but more especially something to make us modest and patient when we think of what those men are going through who are fighting in the North, living and dying in the thick of it all. It is they who are the real heroes.
From the letters we receive it is manifest that we also are regarded as heroes; people will insist on considering as a gigantic struggle our life as navvies and troglodytes! How absurd! Such lavish use should not be made of these fine expressions, so well deserved by those who have fought at Ypres, Nieuport, and Dixmude.
Here, too, we may deserve them some day. Meanwhile, let us do a little gardening.
Wednesday, 18th November.
We leave Acy to return to the trenches. Madame Gillot stands lamenting at her door.
"Ah! my poor men, I wonder if I shall ever see you again?"
"Very good of you to think of us, Madame Gillot."