Morin did not reply. There was no doubt that he wasn’t certain of his way, but he did not dare to admit his mistake. The weather inclined one to melancholy. We walked on in silence. The path was very narrow and we were obliged to walk one behind the other. A sinister grumbling seemed to shatter the heavens above the fog. Instinctively we hurled ourselves to the ground into the wet grass and mud. The shell passed over us and buried itself in the ground without exploding. “This quarter hardly seems the safest in the world, Morin.” “They’re firing on the battery of ‘75’s’.” “A battery of ‘75’s’? What battery?... Where have you seen a battery?” Although he was seriously disturbed about our direction, Morin would not budge. [Illustration: A SINISTER GRUMBLING SEEMED TO SHATTER THE FOG _See page 110_] “It was there day before yesterday. It must have moved.” “I suppose you’re sure your short cut hasn’t changed its place.” I had scarcely spoken when a shell followed the direction of the first and exploded beside us, throwing up a mass of mud, grass and water. The ground was soft and unfavorable for deadly splinters. In any other terrain we would have been hit seriously. This time Morin hesitated, “I’m afraid I’m mistaken!...” “I was sure of it a long time ago.” “Let’s go on just the same; this must bring us out somewhere.” “That’s my opinion, too.” The fog was still heavy. We walked in a cloud the length of an interminable trench recently cut in the clay. The bottom was full of water. It leads us in an unknown direction. How can we find out what way we are going? Where are we? We follow its windings for half an hour and clamber over crossings. Perhaps we’re going around in a circle. The mist is about us all the time. We can see nothing. Not a landmark. In the distance far to the north, in the English sector, a heavy gun hammers the air with loud regular shots. We started out at daybreak to go ten miles. It is ten o’clock now and we have no idea where we are. I get impatient and begin to grumble. The air becomes fresher, and a fairly strong breeze comes up. In a few seconds the blue sky reappears above our heads. In front of us forms stand out—trees, shattered trees, stretching their dead branches like broken arms, and seeming to cry to heaven in entreaty for the martyred earth. “The La Vache woods!” We are in the La Vache woods within sight of the enemy’s lines. Thirty yards from them! We are on the further side of the trenches, where the terrific storm of shells rages daily. We have the honor of being the finest target that will ever be offered for a shot with a grenade. We throw ourselves flat, but the embankment overhangs the lines so much that even crawling is only a moderate safeguard. “Nom de Dieu! I’ll remember your short cut! To go to the Boches it’s the best ever!...”