"Expect to be fired upon shortly," he says. "An attack is brewing from the direction of Condé."
After a silence, he adds—
"If the shells fall in too great numbers you may withdraw."
"When do shells fall in too great numbers for an outpost?" asks the corporal timidly.
With a vague gesture, the sergeant leaves us to solve the problem ourselves.
The moon is at the full, and it is so light that Reymond is able to make a sketch and I to write a letter, as we await the promised attack. Nothing happens, however. Sleep is our only enemy. Reymond puts on his poncho, wraps a red silk handkerchief round his head, and, pretending to strum away on a shovel as though it were a mandolin, softly hums a malagueña.
Tuesday, 3rd November.
The lieutenant calls out—
"I want some one with his wits about him to act as telephonist at the artillery observation post."
I modestly step forward.