At five in the evening the section is guarding the telephone at Pont-Rouge, on the Bucy road. The light infantry have constructed a hut, which will just hold ten men. Three very comfortable bedsteads, and in one corner a rustic-looking chimney-place, where a magnificent fire sheds its genial warmth. Here we come to roast ourselves in turn, in the intervals of sentry duty. The cold is bitter; the mud of the beaten track is frozen hard. The roads themselves bristle with clods of frozen earth. The Pont-Rouge road, which leads direct to the enemy, who is entrenched three hundred yards away, is blocked by a rampart of sand-bags. These bags are covered with blood. It was here that the 5th Battalion, on the 12th of this month, deposited their wounded and dead. A few broken rifles heaped up along the copse, _pêle-mêle_ with various military equipment. Balls whistle in our ears; sometimes they ricochet on the frozen ground and glance off with a singing sound. _Saturday, 21st November._ To-night the thermometer is 13° Centigrade below zero. I have slept very well, in the open air, rolled in canvas wrappings at the bottom of the trench. On waking I see Jacquard's hirsute beard, kind innocent eyes and red nose. The rest of his face is swathed in chestnut-coloured wool. Quick, my bottle and a good mouthful of brandy. Just in time, for the cold has surprised us during the night and frozen me to the very bones. I pick up my can, which I had laid aside during sleep: it is full of icicles. The coffee is frozen. The cold has brought out a number of fantastic costumes. One of my comrades looks like a bashi-bazouk, another like a chorus singer in _Boris Godounow_. To write a letter I put on great red woollen gloves, a grey muffler, and a blue _passe-montagne_. I also wear trousers of green velvet; the effect being quite good. All the same, it must not be imagined that we look disguised. At muster, the blue uniform reappears and the usual military aspect of things; we remain soldiers beneath our fantastic accoutrement, having all become so without an effort of will. Adaptation to the drudgery and difficulties of the profession comes about insensibly. Luckily, the wind is not blowing in the direction of the trench; but the enemy's bullets pour in a raking fire. Maxence, who is extremely tall and too careless to bend down, just misses being killed on two occasions. His calm is most exasperating. We shriek at him-- "_Sale rosse!_ I suppose you'll be happy when you've got a bullet through your head. And you think it will be a joke for us to carry you away dead, a giant like you?" "He weighs at least a hundred and eighty pounds," growls Jacquard, who is a dwarf in comparison. After all, frost is better than rain and mud. _Sunday, 22nd November._