We proceed along the Aisne in Indian file over a bombarded road. On our left, behind the hill, fighting is taking place; always the same sound, as of carpets being beaten or planks being nailed down. Here comes a battalion of our regiment; the other is in the trenches. A bivouac is installed on the side of a hillock in a meadow surrounded by trees. Evening descends. We build huts made of trusses of straw, torn from a neighbouring stack. The stack melts away and finally disappears, having been transformed into a little negro village. The fire needed for the cooking of our meal sets up great flares of light, ... too great, in all probability, for a hail of bullets whistles about our ears. Where does it come from? Mystery! "Put out the fires and lie flat on the ground!" shout the officers. The bullets continue; some strike the ground with a sharp, cracking sound, others ricochet and glance off! _Piou! Piou!_ I lie there and wait until this storm of iron, more irritating than dangerous, has passed. The thought enters my mind-- "How bothering! It has even lost the attraction of novelty for me now." As one who has already seen fire, I feel impelled to address a few words to my neighbours, Maxence and Sergeant Chaboy. Curious to gather their impressions, I crawl up to them and slyly ask-- "Well, raw ones, what do you think of the stew?" They are both asleep. As I receive nothing but a snore for an answer, I do not insist. Firing ceases as suddenly as it began. We rise to our feet; one man is wounded and a _gamelle_ shot through. That's all. After fire comes water; an implacable shower beats down upon our poor straw shelters, penetrating right through and laying them flat on the ground. The place must be left. At the foot of the hill, the village of Port-Fontenoy. Every house is full of troops. Not the tiniest shed or loft is available. And here stands the colonel, buried beneath his hood, his face lit up by the intermittent lights coming from his pipe. "Those who have just come from the depot," he says, "had better make shift in the yard here." We make shift. Reymond and Roberty slip away under a cart; I follow suit. Two others join us. Here, at all events, we are somewhat sheltered from the rain. I feel the ground: it is a bed of dung, and soft to the touch. Somebody's muddy shoe is pressed against my face; my back is being used as a pillow by the lieutenant. Huddling together, we feel the cold less. We have had no dinner, merely some _pâté de foie gras_ spread between biscuits as hard as wood. There is a strange odour about our hands, and the dining-room is anything but comfortable. _Wednesday, 16th September._ The night has been a long one, rain falling all the time. We burst out laughing when we discover how dirty we look.