"Hullo!" they say, "here come the foot-soldiers." And what scorn they would convey by the word "foot-soldiers!" Well, and what are they themselves, after all? _Sunday, 13th December._ The whole day is spent in the grotto. It rains so heavily that fatigue duty is suppressed. We are all either sitting or sprawling on the ground, engaged in reading, writing, or eating by the light of a few candles. A practical joke, repeated again and again, and of which we never tire, consists in taking aim at some one intently reading a letter or a book, and hurling at his candle a shoe, a loaf, or a _gamelle_. Sometimes a nose is hit instead of the candle. Thereupon huge guffaws ensue. Varlet, who considers that I am in a sad mood this evening, cannot resist the temptation of taking me by the feet and dragging me on my back three times round the room. I laugh heartily. Then we both crawl about on all-fours, look in the chopped straw for my pipe, tobacco-pouch, knife, and the small change that has dropped from my pocket. Another distraction: we have to carry from the grotto to the first-line trenches great rolls of barbed wire, as wide as a barrel and several yards in length. The things are most difficult to handle. On reaching the outposts, we hoist them over the parapet. Henriot and Milliard, having fastened up the letters and parcels in bags, place these bags on to a barrow and mount to the trenches. The ascent is steep, and the barrow sticks in the mud. From afar we see our two friends climbing the hill. Some one shouts out-- "Letters!" Thereupon there is a rush in the direction of the postman. A dozen men are now wheeling the barrow along. Then come the questions-- "Is there a letter for me? Tell me if my parcel has arrived?" If the answer is in the affirmative-- "Quick, give it to me; hurry up!" Then the distribution takes place very speedily, for Milliard never gets in a temper. We enter the grotto, and at the foot of one of the great pillars supporting the vault Milliard attends to his business. His silhouette and those of the men around show up black against the background of light formed by the opening of the grotto. A dismal-looking tree, standing on a rising ground, exhibits its leafless branches. When the weather is fine the distribution takes place outside skirting the wood, whose leaves we have seen first turn yellow and then fall to the ground.... Milliard says-- "Don't crowd around; you shall all be served in turn!" We group around him. "Now for the parcels!" Milliard calls out the names. "Present! Here!" The parcel flies above our heads in the direction of the answer. _Monday, 14th December._ We are now in the first line, sometimes keeping a watch over the field of beetroots, sometimes, pick or shovel in hand, digging and clearing away.