At five in the evening, what remains of the company crawls away in the direction of a little wood, a few hundred yards in the rear. For a whole hour, in the darkness of the night, I hear a wounded man moan piteously: '_Maman! Maman!_' During the 15th, 16th, and 17th, we are favoured by the uncertain shelter of the wood. The rain is pouring down in torrents. The cannonade and rifle fire continue without interruption. A few more men are wounded. On the evening of the 17th, the relief is effected to the accompaniment of a hail of bullets." Verrier has finished his reading. CHAPTER VI BEFORE FONTENOY _Saturday, 19th September._ The regiment is appointed to be an Army Corps reserve. We cross the Aisne early in the morning and prepare support trenches three kilometres in the rear. This is the first time we play at digging holes in the ground. It appears that the Germans dig them, and that they prove useful. Navvies' picks and shovels are distributed. We work in twos; one digging hard and the other clearing away the earth whilst the first man is resting. By the end of the day the section has dug up a trench deep enough for one to walk in without being seen. This evening we are quartered at Ressons-le-Long, in an old round tower, of venerable aspect, adjoining a farm. The regiment has left the east and proceeded northwards, before coming down in the direction of Paris. Then it took part in the battle of the Marne, and finally stopped on the banks of the Aisne. Still no letters! The battalion claims the services of a postman, a busy, anxious-looking man. From time to time he stops and opens his bags in some quiet corner and blurts out about a hundred names, which he reads from envelopes chosen indiscriminately. A few of the men are there. Sometimes there is a Dubois who answers: "Present." The postman looks up sternly. "Dubois what. What's your other name?" "Dubois, Charles." With a scornful shrug of the shoulders-- "The letter I have here is for Dubois, Emile. Why do you make me lose my time?" The same thing happens with the Duponts, the Durands, and the Martins. The one present never possesses the right Christian name. The postman throws back the letters into his big bag and continues his round. "They're always asking for letters," he grumbles, "but when I bring any they never come for them." "They" frequently have a good reason for not coming, they may well have met their death between two posts. The postman finds his bags swelling in bulk a little more every day; he becomes more anxious and careworn than ever. Sinister rumours are spread regarding his intentions. "He says that if the men are not there when he calls out the names to-morrow, he will burn everything left in the bag." "The deuce! But did he mention where the distribution was to take place?" He has done nothing of the kind; the hour and place of distribution are the postman's secret. _Sunday, 20th September._