An hour's drill this morning in the shell-ploughed fields, manual exercise and section school, just to remind us that we are soldiers. Hair review by the lieutenant in the afternoon. The entire company must pass through the barber's hands. Charensac bursts into our room, shouting out, "Good day. How are you, my young friends?" His voice upsets us completely, and we roughly inquire whether he has not yet learnt the value of silence after five months of warfare. Thereupon he explains in his gibberish-- "Don't get angry. I know some one at Crouy who has received a supply of benedictine and all sorts of good things to eat. I at once thought of you, for I know my generous little mates will pay for me a drink...." He is absolved. A bottle of benedictine is worth considering at certain moments of one's life, and so Charensac starts for Crouy, supplied with funds, precise instructions, and promises. In ordinary times the road to Crouy is probably as good as any other road. But these are not ordinary times. Shells are continually falling, and a portion of the village of Crouy itself is in the hands of the enemy. A German machine-gunner, whom we know well, opens fire when any one passes a certain corner. Charensac, however, disdains the very idea of peril; he is very brave. The other day, when he was brawling away as usual, his weary neighbour interrupted him-- "_Ah! là, là_, you wouldn't make such a noise if we were attacking." Charensac replied, not without an air of dignity, speaking instinctively of himself in the third person, as though he might have been Cæsar or Napoleon-- "Don't trouble yourself about Charensac. Just keep by his side when there is hot work to be done, then no one will ever be in a position to say that you were afraid." And, as a matter of fact, Charensac continues to make fine sport of war, even in the midst of danger. Certainly I have never met his like before. Charensac returns in the course of the evening. We all run to meet him. He tosses off a glass of benedictine, accepts a flannel girdle, two pocket-handkerchiefs, a bar of chocolate, a camphor sachet for killing fleas, and then he retires to sleep, shrieking joyfully. _Wednesday, 30th December._ From noon to four o'clock we clean out the branch trenches, which the rain has transformed into mud puddles. _Thursday, 31st December._ Morning drill during a brief spell of sunshine. Belin comes to dinner. The year about to begin will be a year of peace and victory, of our return home. We do not wait for midnight before going to bed, though we first wish one another a happy 1915. _Friday, 1st January, 1915._ Not everybody has followed our example of sobriety in letting in the new year. This morning some unsteady walking is visible in the streets of Bucy and Bacchic songs fill the air. At five the company returns to the grotto. _Saturday, 2nd January._