Firing ceases as suddenly as it began. We rise to our feet; one man is wounded and a gamelle shot through. That's all.
After fire comes water; an implacable shower beats down upon our poor straw shelters, penetrating right through and laying them flat on the ground. The place must be left.
At the foot of the hill, the village of Port-Fontenoy. Every house is full of troops. Not the tiniest shed or loft is available. And here stands the colonel, buried beneath his hood, his face lit up by the intermittent lights coming from his pipe.
"Those who have just come from the depot," he says, "had better make shift in the yard here."
We make shift.
Reymond and Roberty slip away under a cart; I follow suit. Two others join us. Here, at all events, we are somewhat sheltered from the rain. I feel the ground: it is a bed of dung, and soft to the touch. Somebody's muddy shoe is pressed against my face; my back is being used as a pillow by the lieutenant. Huddling together, we feel the cold less. We have had no dinner, merely some pâté de foie gras spread between biscuits as hard as wood. There is a strange odour about our hands, and the dining-room is anything but comfortable.
Wednesday, 16th September.
The night has been a long one, rain falling all the time. We burst out laughing when we discover how dirty we look.
The order comes to cross the wood and reach the crest of the hill, beyond which something is happening—something serious, to judge by the noise. On the other bank of the Aisne, scarcely a kilometre distant, the small station of Ambleny-Fontenoy is being bombarded. The volleys pass over our heads, making a noise like that of a tram skidding over the rails. A flaky patch of white smoke indicates where the explosion takes place.