The sentry especially has a very sickly look.
"Why didn't you stick your bayonet into the fool of a German?" some one asks.
"My bayonet was sheathed. Do you fix your bayonet when on sentry duty in the trench? It's only in the illustrated papers that you find such silly things!"
The escaped German, whom we baptize Fritz, has left his Mauser behind. What sort of a story will Fritz have to tell on returning to his own lines without his rifle? Will he be kicked unmercifully? Or will he be clever enough to make up a tale of heroism which will win him an iron cross?
A stormy night. Rifle shots. Patrols peppering one another.
The voice of a wounded German calls for help, a plaintive, wailing voice; he wishes to surrender, his comrades have left him, and he begs us to come for him.
"Come along. We'll do you no harm."
There is no reply. Most likely a feint to draw some of us into an ambush.
Sunday, 10th January.
This morning we notice that the Germans have profited by the darkness to dig an attack branch, enabling them to pour a raking fire into our trenches. This part of the sector is becoming difficult to hold. We receive the impression that the enemy is preparing an ugly surprise.