A cry has vibrated through the night, coming from far away to the right, and as if it had been intended for us alone, it echoes and re-echoes through the trees around us, with poignant, tragic force. "To arms!" A glimpse of light, quickly extinguished, passes from one end of the French trenches to the other. A crisp outbreak rends the darkness; branches, bullet-shattered, fall to the earth. We have flung ourselves flat, face downwards. Fortunately our men are firing high; the slope of the earth saves us. Still lying flat, we crawl with difficulty through an entanglement of brambles. Chabeau and Gilon are so close to me that I can hear their laboured breathing. Often a whining bullet grazes us; but most of them fly above us right across the hollow, to embed themselves in the further side. "We had better shout out, Lieutenant," Chabeau suggests. "No, no! Follow me!" I recollect that between two stretches of trenches there remains an unexcavated interval, and it is towards that spot I set my crawling course, followed by my two men. I peer into the darkness intently, and gradually my eyes acquire an amazing keenness. Jets of rifle fire serve to guide me. They flash out constantly on the same line, in the middle of which there remains a patch of darkness. We are directly opposite that patch, which represents our haven. More bullets sing and whine about us, falling harmlessly to either side. Chabeau, with his mouth close to my ear, says: "I think we are all right now, Lieutenant, but we have had a warm time, haven't we?" "Rather!" I reply. "And it is not yet finished. Some terrified idiot may still serve us dirtily, when he sees us coming from the same direction as the Boches!" The two echo in chorus: "Ah, yes!... Ah, yes!... It is possible!..." "Wait for me here without moving an inch," I command. "I am going forward alone to try and rejoin the men. When I have warned them, I will return for you." I rise deliberately and dash with all speed across the open space separating me from the trenches. How easy it was! The noise of the rifles changes abruptly; when I sprang to my feet, the firing sounded harsh, almost sharp; now the voice of the bullets is deadened and dulled. A few leaps suffice to carry me well to the rear of the trenches. But how of those two others, lying flat on their faces in the open? Each second is of urgent importance. "Lieutenant!--Lieutenant!--who is there?" A big man rushes up to me, stares through the darkness into my face, and then: "Ah! So it is you, Lieutenant! But that lifts a weight off my heart! You are not hurt? I told myself that you could not be wounded. I knew you had gone out; I held up my fire and no one about me fired, and we were directly in front of the cutting. But, name of a dog! how the time dragged!" The man who addresses me in this way is Souesme, one of my sergeants. This is my opportunity.