Charensac, a big fellow, is particularly lively. Though no longer a cook, he is in possession of the latest news. "General attack along the whole front," he explains. Then he gives forth one of his war-cries-- "_Oh dis!_ _Oh dis!_ _Oh dis!_ _Oh dis!_" Charensac is fond of uttering cries devoid of meaning. We walk to and fro in the trench. The artillery are preparing the attack, and the shells shriek past overhead. The enemy makes no reply. What a din! Impossible to think at all. Verrier, who, acknowledged to be ill, had remained in the grotto all yesterday, comes rushing up, perspiring and out of breath. "What are you doing here? This is not the time----" "It is not the time to leave one's mates," he replies. He seats himself on the ground and waits. "Suppose we open a few tins of food," remarks Reymond. "I feel terribly hungry." Reymond is always ready for a bite or a sup. Nor is he ever downhearted. The acceptance of the inevitable forms part of his hygiene. We eat, standing, a piece of tunny with our fingers, after cutting slices of bread which serve as plates. Impossible to exchange a dozen words. The explosions of the 75's double in intensity. The roar is deafening. Quarter-past ten. Forward. The fourth section leaves the trenches. The fusillade gives out a ripping sound with almost brutal effect. The first section, our own, proceeds one by one into a branch, which gradually becomes less deep, and finally runs out on to the open ground. The bullets whistle past. We run ahead with bent bodies, one hand clutching the rifle, the other preventing the bayonet sheath from beating against the leg. It is our business to reach what seems part of a trench a hundred yards ahead, where we shall find temporary shelter. Verrier stumbles. The thought comes to me-- "There! He's hit!" Running up to him, I call out-- "Wounded?" He makes a vague sign indicating that he is not hurt, but points to his panting breast. He has no more breath left. Here is the trench, into which we leap. Now the bullets pass over our heads. Reymond is by my side. The spurt has put us out of breath also. We smile at each other. "Things are serious this morning, eh?" "I should think so!" The firing becomes more intense. Some one in front cries-- "_Maman!_" We all give a start and look at each other. Who is the man who uttered that shriek of distress? We hear some one say-- "It's Mignard. He is killed." From eight to ten men of the section engaged crawl towards us, groaning and moaning. Little Ramel is amongst them, but he says not a word. His face is perfectly calm as he advances on all-fours. "What's the matter with you, Ramel?" "A ball in the abdomen." We check our impulse to exclaim "_Diable!_" and help him to come down into the trench without shaking him. Poor Ramel, the life and soul of his squadron! He talks quietly to his comrades, and dies in the course of the night.