Few projectiles are falling here on the great quarry as yet, but only a few shots too long or too short from the great guns aimed at the ammunition depot at Froissy. The barrage is further on.... As one approaches it, the earth and air seem to tremble even more.... One walks on a moving wave, as if tossed about on the bridge of a ship. A displacement of air throws one to the right, the next one to the left. They march swaying like drunken men. I approach.... Some steps in front of what was the “Servian” trench is the beginning of Hell. Men, officers, and stretcher-bearers are crouching in holes in half-blown-in saps, waiting for a lull which for several hours has not come. The sick and wounded, haggard and frightened, do not dare to make a move outside the precarious shelters which even the smallest shell would destroy and bury them alive. A Zouave, with a swarthy face and a profile like a medallion, gesticulates and shouts. A long gash cuts his forehead from the arch of his eyebrows to the ear; the blood flows thick and black on his cheek and runs into his beard. He waves a rag on the end of a stick. “The noubah! the noubah! It is the noubah! They are going to dance. You’ll dance with me, won’t you?” And he runs towards the bombs, laughing a frightful laugh which makes me shudder. Poor fool! A hole opens under his feet. He falls. Perhaps the fall will save him from a mortal wound. Some Colonials, fatalists, accustomed to so many other storms—for two years they have been in the hottest part of all the engagements—talk coolly under a dugout which is still intact. They squat on their crossed legs and smoke peacefully. The smoke from their pipes, rising in slow easy curves, seems to set at defiance the frightful cataclysm which rages around us. A stretcher-bearer, a priest, whom I think I recognize, is dressing a wounded man who has escaped in some way from the furnace and who faints in his arms. Intent on his bandaging he seems to have no idea of the Hell two steps away. He gives him the same care with the same imperturbable calm that he would in the absolute security of some faraway ambulance. A staff-officer, a captain, is observing the ground through a glass. As is my case, he is carrying an urgent order which cannot wait. He looks at me and understands from my attitude that I, too, must go on. “Shall we try it?” “If you wish, Captain.” “In case of accident, my pocketbook is in the pocket of my jacket, here ... you will take it to the officer of details of the ... first Zouaves.” “Mine is here, Captain.” I indicate the left pocket of my tunic. “All right.” “Let’s go.” * * * * * He grasps my hand and we advance flat on the ground, bounding from one shell hole to another farther ahead. We compel our bodies to take the shape of the excavation in which we burrow.