The moon is at the full, and it is so light that Reymond is able to make a sketch and I to write a letter, as we await the promised attack. Nothing happens, however. Sleep is our only enemy. Reymond puts on his poncho, wraps a red silk handkerchief round his head, and, pretending to strum away on a shovel as though it were a mandolin, softly hums a _malagueña_. _Tuesday, 3rd November._ The lieutenant calls out-- "I want some one with his wits about him to act as telephonist at the artillery observation post." I modestly step forward. After a moment's hesitation the lieutenant remarks-- "Good! Off you go." I reach the first line trench. An emplacement two yards square has been dug in the trench branch and covered with corrugated sheet-iron. An artillery captain is seated here on a high stool looking through a telescope. By his side is the telephone. The captain explains-- "I am off to inspect my battery. During my absence, sit here and keep your eyes glued to the telescope. What you see is one of the entrances of the fort of Condé, about five kilometres distant. If you find the enemy mustering, telephone immediately. The spot is marked, our guns will be fired, and you will be able to see what happens." I take up my post. After a short time small silhouettes begin to move about within the field of vision. Gradually I make out German foot-soldiers coming and going unarmed. Evidently they have mustered for some fatigue duty or other. For the first time there appears before my eyes the horrifying spectacle of invasion--the enemy's forces moving about on French territory as though it were their own. Quitting the telescope, I spring to the telephone. "Battery number 90!... _Mon capitaine_, a muster is forming.... Yes, at the very spot you mentioned." Four almost simultaneous detonations from the battery. Whilst the salvo is on its way I return to the telescope; the four shells fall right on the muster, raising into the air enormous columns of earth. The smoke dissipates. Staring with all my eyes, I see little grey figures scatter in every direction. Five cavalry, riding just outside the zone of explosion, dig their spurs into their horses' sides and flee. Not a living soul to be seen. Looking hard, I imagine I notice dead bodies on the ground. Apparently, at the spot under surveillance, there are works to be completed, for on three occasions that morning fresh musters form. I do not succeed in making out what they are doing, but on each occasion a salvo from the battery scatters them. The captain to whom I wire the results is delighted. "Don't let them go," he answers. "Any movement in the spot marked will be dealt with as the others have been. They have no idea where we are." I return to my watch. A mere foot-soldier in charge of a battery may well feel proud. How nice to be some one "with his wits about him." _Wednesday, 4th; Thursday, 5th November._ My rôle as observer is rendered ineffectual by a dense mist.