And off they go. I am left alone in this unfamiliar grotto, which is larger, colder, and more forbidding in appearance than our former one. I again fall into a heavy sleep.
Ten o'clock. A succession of dull sounds is heard above the vault: the roar of cannon. I hear whispers and wailings. A relief post has just been installed in the grotto, and I recognize the voices of the major and the attendants. Stretcher-bearers continue to bring in one wounded man after another. What can be the matter?
I sit up. They tell me that fighting has been going on over the whole upland for more than four hours.
"And where is the 24th?"
"The 24th is in reserve."
Good. I lie down again and instantly sink off to sleep.
Noon. The same dull heavy sounds, even more frequent than a couple of hours ago. I rise to my feet, still in a very shaky condition. No one is near me, except a few wounded Moroccans who have dragged themselves here. Somewhat uneasy, I proceed to the entrance of the grotto. The spectacle is a bewildering one. Squalls of shells are falling; bullets are whistling past. About twenty yards away are a few straggling soldiers, firing and shouting. A light infantryman, with glaring eyes, screams out—
"A rifle! Give me a rifle! Mine won't fire any longer. A rifle! Here they come!"
And the wounded drag themselves painfully along, trying to find shelter. I question one of them. Things are going ill with us. The Germans are advancing; they will be here any moment.
A lieutenant, as he passes, calls out—