Roberty returns; the regiment is in the first line, between Fontenoy and Port-Fontenoy. En route to join it.
We proceed along the Aisne in Indian file over a bombarded road. On our left, behind the hill, fighting is taking place; always the same sound, as of carpets being beaten or planks being nailed down. Here comes a battalion of our regiment; the other is in the trenches. A bivouac is installed on the side of a hillock in a meadow surrounded by trees. Evening descends. We build huts made of trusses of straw, torn from a neighbouring stack. The stack melts away and finally disappears, having been transformed into a little negro village. The fire needed for the cooking of our meal sets up great flares of light, ... too great, in all probability, for a hail of bullets whistles about our ears. Where does it come from? Mystery!
"Put out the fires and lie flat on the ground!" shout the officers.
The bullets continue; some strike the ground with a sharp, cracking sound, others ricochet and glance off! Piou! Piou!
I lie there and wait until this storm of iron, more irritating than dangerous, has passed. The thought enters my mind—
"How bothering! It has even lost the attraction of novelty for me now."
As one who has already seen fire, I feel impelled to address a few words to my neighbours, Maxence and Sergeant Chaboy. Curious to gather their impressions, I crawl up to them and slyly ask—
"Well, raw ones, what do you think of the stew?"
They are both asleep. As I receive nothing but a snore for an answer, I do not insist.