Varlet, with his hood, looks like a dwarf out of some book of fairy tales; Jacquard wears a knitted helmet, out of which emerges a fan-shaped beard; he covers his shoulders with an oil-cloth stole. He looks like a chorister masquerading as a crusader. Reymond, draped in a huge khaki poncho, might have been a member of the Holy League. The walls of the trench are slippery and fall in. There are but few dug-outs, scarcely any of which can be used because of the water finding its way through the badly jointed planks. The only possible shelter consists of kennels made on the surface of the ground, into which a man may coil himself. Take care, however, lest they fall in! We can do nothing but submit to the rain, and let ourselves be submerged. This is no longer war, it's a deluge. _Saturday, 5th December._ Everybody must be up on watch duty before dawn. This is the regulation hour for counter-attacks.... As a rule it is the quietest time of the day. About seven the cooks bring coffee and letters. After swallowing the one and devouring the others, there remains but little to do; we doze about, play cards, perhaps, in case we find a sufficiently dry spot. Or we may be sent off on a cleaning expedition, scraping the mud away from the floor of the branch trench. About noon the cooks appear again-- "Lunch-time!" There are two of them--_Piaf_ and the "Fireman" in shirt-sleeves--one carrying the dish full of meat, the other carrying the two big vessels containing respectively soup and coffee. They fill our plates and _gamelles_. Our hands are caked with earth. The "Fireman" pours out for each man a little of the mess alcohol--a nasty mixture containing tincture of iodine; we swallow it like whey. Frequently there is wine to drink. We drag out the meal to kill time. From half-past three onwards we are very impatient. We shall not be relieved before nightfall. By reason of the narrowness of branches and trenches it becomes most difficult to make room for the new arrivals. They can pass along only when we squeeze ourselves into a corner, like herrings in a barrel. To-night the company is not going down into the grotto; it must occupy another emplacement, also in the front line. Appearance of a German engine which we immediately nickname the "torpedo"--a formidable explosion preceded by no hissing sound whatsoever; a blinding flash, prolonged vibrations, projectiles flung in every direction. At first we are somewhat stupefied. As I am carrying an order from the lieutenant to the adjutant, a torpedo explodes on the parapet, lifts a couple of men off their feet and covers me with earth. No one is hurt. This new invention seems to make more noise than it does injury--on condition, of course, that the projectile does not come down direct on the trench itself. _Sunday, 6th December._