Varlet, naked down to the waist, turns round and round, rolling himself in his flannel girdle, one end of which is held tight by Meuret, who is always ready to lend a helping hand. Mauventre, Piaf, and the "Fireman" are playing cards with the corporal, making comments on each move. Charensac crouches down, drawing up an inventory of the wealth he has stored away in his haversack. The rest, rolled snugly in their coverings, sleep and snore.
Friday, 27th November.
Our artillery vigorously bombards the enemy's trenches. Nothing to do except watch the shells—and the rain—fall.
Saturday, 28th November.
In the front line the section occupies a new sector, not yet completed. A misty maddening rain chills us to the very bones. Impossible to see twenty yards in front of one. The kind of weather which gives you the impression that the sun has left this world and will never return.
Sunday, 29th November.
The 24th goes down to Bucy at six in the evening.
Our hosts know the hour we are to be relieved. They expect us.
"Sainte Vierge, what a filthy condition you are in!" exclaims Madame Achain.