The escaped German, whom we baptize Fritz, has left his Mauser behind. What sort of a story will Fritz have to tell on returning to his own lines without his rifle? Will he be kicked unmercifully? Or will he be clever enough to make up a tale of heroism which will win him an iron cross? A stormy night. Rifle shots. Patrols peppering one another. The voice of a wounded German calls for help, a plaintive, wailing voice; he wishes to surrender, his comrades have left him, and he begs us to come for him. "Come along. We'll do you no harm." There is no reply. Most likely a feint to draw some of us into an ambush. _Sunday, 10th January._ This morning we notice that the Germans have profited by the darkness to dig an attack branch, enabling them to pour a raking fire into our trenches. This part of the sector is becoming difficult to hold. We receive the impression that the enemy is preparing an ugly surprise. At noon we are relieved. The glorious sunshine puts us in good humour. A profound sense of security and repose inside--or in front of--the grotto, whilst a heavy cannonade is preparing an attack on Hill 132. The attack is made at sunset. The Moroccans and light infantry carry a third line of trenches, and fortify themselves on the upland, almost touching the Perrière farm. _Monday, 11th January._ The whole afternoon we stand at the entrance of the grotto watching the big projectiles fall upon Bucy. _Vr--ran!_ _vr--ran!_ In the evening, silence again reigns; the 21st and 24th go down to Vénizel, on the Aisne, a distance of four kilometres from Bucy. For the first time since the 15th of November we are about to find ourselves out of rifle-shot range. How glad we should be if we could put ourselves for a week out of earshot of the cannons' roar! It rains in torrents. Our quarters have been badly arranged; no one knows where he has to go. Lieutenants shout; sub-officers raise their arms in despair. We men wait, the rain pouring down upon us. Finally comes an order: our squadron is on guard, and we must occupy a pinnace moored on the right bank of the Aisne, above the bridge. We follow the banks of the swollen stream, and then cross a wood, the first few trees of which are partially under water. A faint light is seen: it is the pinnace. We enter one by one along a shaky plank which threatens to give way. And now we are yachtsmen. This is one of the most curious incarnations of our life as soldiers. The squadron--which, for the occasion, we call the crew--occupies the 'tween decks. There is a big petrol lamp and a good stove. The skipper, mobilized on the spot, and his wife, seem very nice people. And what a pleasant refuge! Varlet brings letters and parcels. Our joy knows no bounds. Reymond, tricked out in a sky-blue cap, repeatedly mounts on to the deck. "Are you on the watch?" asks the corporal. "Yes. Fine breeze north-north-west. In twenty days we shall reach the Cape of Good Hope."