Every two minutes he counts off: one! and each man must answer in file: two, three, four, five, six. Thus he makes sure that no one is asleep. The prolonged whistle of the bullets as they pass makes us open our eyes. We can hear dull sounds in front of us: the Germans are camping, cutting down trees. A dog barks. Carts rumble along: the German supplies, no doubt. The roar of cannon in the distance. It is bitterly cold. Hoar-frost shows itself on our coats and on the beetroots. My jacket is in my haversack: I take it out and tie it round my neck by the sleeves. Impossible to keep warm. Reymond passes me a small bottle. "Taste. This must be something especially good; it comes from home." I take a good drink. "Gracious! How strong it is! And what a strange taste!" It is Reymond's turn to drink, he smacks his lips and reflects. Finally he says-- "I believe it's arnica." We do our best to keep awake. Belin counts: One! I answer: Two, and a snore escapes me. A dig in the ribs brings me back to the reality of things. "Well! Didn't I say: 'Two'?" "You did," whispers Belin ironically; "but you said it with a snore." "Even if I snore, I don't fall asleep." "That's news to me," affirms Belin with all the authority of his nine years' campaigns. The better to keep awake, we begin to talk. Reymond asks a question. "I say, Belin, this is a real outpost, is it not?" "Certainly." "In case of attack, what becomes of the outposts?" "In case of attack, the outposts are invariably sacrificed," answers Belin with calm assurance. _Wednesday, 7th October._ At five o'clock Belin takes us back to the rear. We are dreadfully cold and our teeth are chattering. A good drink of hot coffee, followed by a mouthful of brandy, and we fall asleep. The position dominating Bucy-le-Long and the plain of Vénizel was carried last month by the English and a body of Zouaves. They drove the Germans from the valley back to the heights and only halted on reaching a plain which extends to the horizon, a vast field of beetroots cut by the main road between Maubeuge and Paris. The English trenches lay between the hill and the wood. Here and there are large shelters for seven or eight men, a sort of rabbit-hutch; the roofs, made of the trunk's of trees, are covered with a thick layer of earth. In front of the road, pickets planted in the field in quincunx form and connected together by wire. Here and there on the wires hang empty preserve tins, which strike against each other at the slightest movement. If a hostile patrol reaches the wire-work, it starts the warning tins, and the alarm is given. This system of defence we look upon as both formidable and ingenious.