We strained our ears for a few thrilling seconds. Dead silence. Guillaumin admitted that he must have been mistaken, and apologised. But at this point Bouillon came crawling along in a hurry.
"Here come the Bosches. Look! Look!"
Yes. There was a moving line yonder, cutting across the pale grey of the stubble.
What orders would the lieutenant give? We went to look for him, quickly rousing the poilus on our way. They got up, rubbing their eyes, and noiselessly seized their rifles at the order to stand to arms.
We met Bouguet on the way, equally on the alert. The whole platoon was breathless with excitement. We passed word along the line to our neighbours.
And what of Henriot? We ended by discovering the poor wretch, who had probably held out all night against his weariness, overcome by it at last, and snoring away with his head on his arm.
Guillaumin shook with laughter.
"A lot of good all his trouble had been!"
He wanted to startle him by clapping him on the back. I objected. What was the good of humiliating him? I arranged to catch him with my elbow as I brushed past, and deferentially inquired as he moved:
"Is that what you would advise, sir?"