The section has been ordered to clean the Pont-Rouge road, in anticipation of the visit of the general. We start with shovels and brooms on our shoulders. Luckily, it is not raining. The Pont-Rouge road is filthy; that, however, is its slightest defect: it is also infested with projectiles. We are not enthusiastic about the work. No one is wounded. _Wednesday, 2nd; Thursday, 3rd December._ At eight o'clock the company musters in a farmyard, proceeding to a field north of Bucy for drill. The soil is ploughed by huge shells which daily continue to fall. Fortunately they have so far chosen a different hour from ours, thus avoiding unpleasant encounters. Here we have section school: "Count off in fours! Right wheel! Line up! Shoulder arms! Right! Left turn!--Left!" The men manoeuvre in very lethargic fashion. Even the words of command have no life in them. The sergeant shouts out-- "Right-about turn!--Right!" He adds-- "This isn't a march at all, it's a paddle!" Towards the end of the drill we deploy in skirmish line, and fling ourselves on our knees before a hail of imaginary bullets. "Let each man practise the right position for charging. Fire three cartridges at the enemy debouching at the outskirts of the wood. Three hundred yards--Fire!" The lieutenant pleads with us-- "Come, come, if you will drill well for five minutes I will march you back to quarters." It is the greatest mistake in the world to drill without putting one's heart into it. As Belin emphatically says-- "Troops that cannot do manual exercises are no better than a flock of sheep." And the rascal is right, too, as he always is. _Friday, 4th December._ At night the company musters to mount to the trenches. On the right, for a few hundred yards, we proceed along the side of the wood, whilst to the left stretches an endless field of beetroots, in the midst of which the Germans are entrenched. In this field has been dug the branch leading to the first line. It is completely dark, and the ground is quite soft; the twenty-five minutes' crossing of this branch is a most disagreeable piece of work. We knock against all sorts of corners, slip about, and fall against the slimy walls. Passages open out from time to time; these are second-line trenches, or else branches connecting together the various sectors. Moreover, first- and second-line trenches resemble the branches, though somewhat wider and provided with earthen parapets in the direction of the enemy. We are all on duty until nine o'clock. The Germans fire their rifles to inform us that they are there. We blaze away in their direction for the same reason. About ten everything is calm. It is raining. Earth and sky seem blended in one general flood.