In war-time, unless he is sent on guard or given fatigue duty, the foot-soldier makes his bed anywhere and anyhow. In case he has insufficient room he shrinks into as small space as possible, his knees touching his chin. The cartridge cases of the man behind him dig into his ribs, and those of the man in front crush his stomach, the hilt of the bayonet finds a place between two other ribs, whilst the sheath always seems twisted and bent.... Well, it can't be helped. You just settle down as well as you can, and you dream, whether awake or asleep. From time to time some one will growl out, "Its impossible to sleep with such a noise going on!" and off he falls at once into a deep slumber. A joyless day seems in store for us. Shall we be attacked? Or are we to attack? A brief distraction takes the form of a young mouse, which comes out of its hole close to our feet, and is by no means startled by the sight of six _poilus_ seated around on the floor. Soon it scampers away, but immediately reappears and fastens its impudent eyes upon us. The roar of the cannon does not seem to disturb its tiny ears. It is neutral. I quietly put out my hand, but evidently the gesture is too familiar, for the mouse re-enters its trench and appears no more. At two o'clock the 24th are ordered to equip and muster. It appears that we are to relieve the 23rd in the first line. News arrives: our attack in the direction of Crouy has succeeded only partially. The artillery duel is coming to an end. We appreciate the silence that follows. We are fixed up in the first line. I spend a couple of hours with Verrier at the listening post, anything but a pleasant spot. The Germans are fifty yards away. By risking an eye at the loop-hole we distinctly make out their wires and the mounds of earth behind which they are. At night we have to keep our ears alive to the faintest sound to prevent ourselves from being taken prisoners or massacred by a patrol party. An interlude. The Germans are imitating the cries of various animals: cock and dog, calf and pig. We ask for news of the Kaiser. They reply-- "He's quite well, thanks. We'll see you again shortly in Paris." A single though expressive word is our retort. Again they shout to us from the enemy's trenches-- "A merry Christmas! Send us some wine." Then they sing the _Marseillaise_! _Saturday, 26th December._ This morning we found the water frozen in our cans. The cooks, when bringing in the soup, assure us that the Hindus have been sent for to make an attack on Crouy. They describe minutely how they are dressed. "There is a fellow in the _train de combat_," says "the Fireman," "who has come across them at Soissons." Thereupon Jacquard cannot contain himself for joy. Being of a most optimistic temperament, he sees the Sikhs and Gurkhas coming down Hill 132 and cutting our invaders' throats. He endeavours to give his foolish face an expression of ferocity, and explains how the Hindus attack.