"Is it far from here?"
"Near Mouilly, two, three miles; you have your back to it."
"And then!… (Censored)!… (Censored)!…"
The men begin to hum.
"… (Censored)!…"
"Silence behind there!" I bawl out. "Aubert, Lardin, silence! you fools! Or that little lullaby of yours won't have a pleasant ending!"
An abrupt halt, marking time.
Here we are, at Rupt-en-Wöevre. The regiment bivouacks in a field at one end of the village. I know nothing at all of the situation, and I find it difficult to take my bearings. The hour is now two in the morning.
We are chilled to the marrow. Porchon and I sit down, back to back, tapping one foot against the other while awaiting the coming of the day. The cold steals up our legs and stiffens them. We find it quite impossible to maintain our position. I tramp up and down a sloping road before some barns. From time to time a man half opens one of the doors and creeps in. By Jove! That's a good idea! I steal into one of the barns to find some thirty men already in occupation. An hour passes, maybe two, during which I sit half on a sack, half on an old hen, who ruffles herself and grumbles constantly.
Dawn cold and stark. We light a fire and endeavour to restore our circulation.