P. B.
[PROLOGUE]
"Unpile Arms!"
Of its own motion and by that force of habit which makes the word of command superfluous, the dark mass of the company rose and formed fours to the right.
The darkness was falling, cold and cruel, slashed with long liquid streaks. It had been raining all day. In the middle of the clearing a grey-green sky looked up at us from shadowy pools.
An order rang out: "Quick March!" The little body moved off. I was at the head. At the edge of the wood was a country-house, some eighteenth-century fantasy; two or three shells had been enough to demolish the wings. The chandeliers of the big ground-floor room, multiplied in its mirrors and sparkling through its tall windows, enhanced the sinister blackness of the falling October night.
Five or six shadowy forms in long cloaks stood out against this background of light.
"What Company?"
"The 24th of the 218th Regiment, sir."
"Are you taking over the Blanc-Sablon trenches?"