The order comes to cross the wood and reach the crest of the hill, beyond which something is happening--something serious, to judge by the noise. On the other bank of the Aisne, scarcely a kilometre distant, the small station of Ambleny-Fontenoy is being bombarded. The volleys pass over our heads, making a noise like that of a tram skidding over the rails. A flaky patch of white smoke indicates where the explosion takes place. We make wagers as to where the next shell will fall. That one--looking in the air to see the snorting projectile pass--will be for the station. _Pan!_ The red roof crumbles in. At that moment a train enters the station. The Germans see it; a projectile falls twenty yards in front of the engine; another, ten yards in front; a third, well aimed, but a little short. The engine-driver does not lose his head; he reverses the engine. Four consecutive explosions on the very spot the locomotive has just left. Applause and shrieks of joy. Both train and station seem very much like Nuremberg toys. One must reflect if emotion is to be genuine. The sun's rays speedily dry our coats on our backs. Some of the men sleep, whilst the artillery duel redoubles in intensity. Varlet has gone into the village to make lunch. He returns, furious, with dishevelled hair and empty hands. "Well! Where's lunch?" Varlet vociferates-- "Lunch, indeed, _Zut!_ You'll have to tighten your belts a little more. A _marmite_ fell right in the middle of it all." Varlet tells his tale: he heard the whistling sound, and knew that he was in for it. He had just time to plunge head first into a dog's kennel. "When the thing exploded," explains our cook, "there was only my head inside, the dog prevented me from entering farther." Good-bye to lunch and the toothsome dishes. Belin is exasperated. "How will my squadron manage for meals now?" he wonders. Prowling about, we discover a little grotto, a comfortable shelter in case of bombardment. Meanwhile, each man makes his own conjectures. Shall we attack this evening or to-morrow? Manifestly we have not been brought here to take an afternoon nap in the sun. Suddenly an order comes that we are to be quartered at Port-Fontenoy. The deuce! This is the point of impact, the magnet that draws all the shells of the district. A barn full of hay and straw. We fling ourselves on to the ground and sleep comes instantaneously. About two in the morning Jacquard, whose turn it is to stand sentry before the door, shakes Roberty, who is soundly sleeping. "_Mon lieutenant_, shells are falling in the yard, we shall all be blown to pieces if we stay here!" Roberty, whose capacity for sleep is quite out of the common, turns over on to his side and growls-- "All right! don't disturb me. To-morrow I will look into the matter." Jacquard, offended, returns to his post. _Thursday, 17th September._ Standing on a slight eminence, we watch the shells, from early dawn, falling on to the station.