The postman finds his bags swelling in bulk a little more every day; he becomes more anxious and careworn than ever.
Sinister rumours are spread regarding his intentions.
"He says that if the men are not there when he calls out the names to-morrow, he will burn everything left in the bag."
"The deuce! But did he mention where the distribution was to take place?"
He has done nothing of the kind; the hour and place of distribution are the postman's secret.
Sunday, 20th September.
We are up at three in the morning. The guns begin to boom. Gradually day appears. Returning to our trenches we see flashes leaping from the cannons' mouth along with tiny puffs of smoke.
The view extends over the valley of the Aisne. The Germans are making desperate efforts to cross the river.
From our position in reserve we watch cyclists rushing along the road. The colonel comes and goes, and gives orders, smoking his huge pipe the while. A telephone has been fitted up in a haystack, from which he does not wander far, as the tinkling call is continually being heard. It is raining. We cover our trenches with sheaves of straw gathered from the neighbouring field and await events, crouching deep in our holes.