The silence is shattered by the sudden thunder of a gun. Right and left and all around other guns take up the challenge. Behind all the hilltops batteries settle down to steady work. Spurts of flame rend the darkness. Those that are far off are fugitive and faint, burning only for a second before darkness falls again; those close at hand are blindingly brilliant and still dance before the eye long after they have vanished. More and more rapid become the detonations, until all space seems filled with them. And those men who were lying down dozing, rise quickly and instinctively seek cover. Rumours are already flying about. Some say that the Boches have attacked with reinforcements under cover of darkness, that they are advancing very quickly, while our artillery is attempting to hold them back with a barrage. It is also said that we are going to counter-attack.
Counter-attack! After such a murderous, wearying day as the one we have lived through. When the exaltation of the men has died away, and they are conscious only of their aching limbs and the void in their stomachs! Counter-attack amid that darkness, with disorganized troops, without cadres, shattered! It would be both futile and cruel.
Yet if it should be necessary? If, with all the troops bivouacked in this region, there are still not enough to stay the rush of the Boches to-night? There are moments when one's duty exceeds one's powers, but when, nevertheless, it is imperative one should seek to fulfil that duty. If we go out there to-night, almost every one of us will remain out there for ever and for ever. Ah, well! And what of it? Shall we not go if we are ordered to do so?
The minutes fly and still no orders arrive. Little by little reflection convinces me that I have stupidly accepted for a reality what is no more than a mere rumour, arising, perhaps, from some words uttered by an unnerved man at the moment when the guns first began to speak.
Two days ago, when coming up to the outposts, we passed through the woods to reach the further edge of it. The sun was still high in the heavens, but despite the plenitude of light, the sections were separated, confused and mixed up because of the thick undergrowth. Through that undergrowth it would be necessary for the Boches to find a way, and with the darkness as another obstacle to their attack. They could never hope to get through; and, what is still more certain, they would never be such fools as to attempt to get through. If they did try, before an hour had passed they would find themselves in a hopeless mess, they would mistake their comrades for enemies, and start firing one upon the other. They know that well enough.
Our artillery is firing without doubt to cover us, to barrage the roads along which the enemy must retire, and prevent him taking up positions which he must not be allowed to occupy. I have been stupid.
At the cry of "Fall in!" which is unexpectedly issued, several of the men begin to grumble softly.
"Stop your silly tales!" I exclaim. "You know nothing of what is going to happen, and yet here you are growling already! Stop it!"
They hold their tongues and march wearily along behind me. I can feel their weariness even more keenly than my own. We are hungry and chronically in need of sleep. Each time we stop for a moment, men throw themselves down heavily beside the ditches.
We pass through Mouilly and turn to the right along a road hitherto unknown. There is a stream, dark forms bending over the water, the squelching of feet in the mud. The road rises and buries itself in the heart of some gloomy woods, but we come to a halt at the edge of them.