There was a sudden stop, just as I had given up hope of ever seeing the end. The section in front of me emerged into a trench, and a ray of light fell on the wet clay at my feet. A form leaned out of a hole, and a voice said to me, “This way, sir; this is your command post.” Hardly had I entered when the curtain which masked the door fell again, to shut in the light. I found myself in a tiny square room constructed entirely of rough logs, that is to say of the trunks of pine trees. It was buried under a mountain of earth, very solidly beaten down, and it had a brick fireplace in which a good coke fire blazed (within 100 mètres of the enemy). There was a bed, or rather a straw mattress, which exactly filled up the middle of this “casba.” The other half was taken up by a stand on which were ranged miscellaneous objects—gum boots, tin boxes, grenades, petards, flares, etc. One could not stand up, but lying down one felt like a king. The network of trenches which unites the sections was so complicated that I lost myself in it every time. In the early morning I made a reconnaissance of the neighbouring sections. At places the parapet became so low that, even by stooping, one was not completely under cover. My presence was hailed by a salvo which passed whistling over my head. _24th February, 1915._—It snowed last night. The trenches are white and my “poilus” are cold. And so am I! A man of my section has just been wounded in the head by a bullet which ricochetted off a bayonet. But, generally speaking, the Germans leave us in peace. _Six o’clock._—My trench has been demolished in part by a “105.” We shall have to work all night to repair it. _26th February, 1915._—Under cover of fog I left my shelter and had some wire entanglements made. The men were able to work without drawing fire. _Per contra_ a German patrol came exploring, counting on the fog for concealment. Having arrived opposite Règues’s section, they must have lost their way and pitched straight on to us. We hit three of them. All the morning, fifty mètres off, we saw them wriggling and raising their legs, and we heard them crying out. It was impossible to go to bring them in, the Germans would have fired on us. One of them signalled that he was ready to surrender. He put up his hands and cried, “Kamarad, Kamarad,” so he can’t be badly wounded. We could see him rise, unbuckle his belt and throw off his pack. My men, very pleased, were ready to receive him with open arms, but he regained his own lines at a bound. We let off a salvo, but the “Kamarad” had already disappeared. The two others kept on wriggling like worms.