Nevertheless, the confused sounds of the battle carry up the slope to our marching troop. Somewhere, down there, a lively artillery duel crashes in fury and the brilliant flashes of light dart their resplendent triangles into the heavens. Is it there we are going? No one knows. One feels his heart thrilled and a little shaken by the nearness. Instinctively one touches elbows with his neighbor, tightens his grip on his rifle; becomes silent. All the time we advance. Occasionally there are stops; sudden, unlooked-for stops. Then one starts on. Soon we reach some houses. We are entering the street of a village and the shaded lanterns cast weird shadows on the walls. The column crowds together. We catch our breath. “We camp here,” say the sergeants. The orders are sent along the line. There is a moment of rest; then the squads break up. Every one seeks his place of shelter. We are quartered in the buildings of a large farm. I and my companions are billeted in a barn and we stamp our feet on the unthreshed wheat which has been stored there. Each begins hollowing out a place to sleep. “Make no lights,” order the sergeants, “you will be spotted.” “Eh, boys!” calls a voice, “where do you come from?” And from between the bundles of straw we see the up-lifted heads of several soldiers. Approaching them, we find that they have been comfortably sleeping in their straw nests, and that our arrival has awakened them. We question them: “What is this place, here?” “It is Taissy.” “Ah!” “Is it far from the trenches?” “Oh, no, mon garçon; only about fifteen hundred metres.” Then they tell their story. They are cripples, mostly lame, who are waiting for vehicles to take them back to the dressing-stations. They have been in the trenches for a month; they have fought; they give details of their battles. We do not see them. We hear only detached phrases which come to us confusedly out of the night. “A dirty hole. We lost a heap of men.” “There’s a fort up there which we recaptured.” “There were three counter-attacks.” “Then, a dirty canal full of rotten meat. What a stink!” Suddenly some furious detonations rend the air. Every one is silent. We listen. “That’s nothing,” say the old-timers, “it’s only our battery firing. But if the Boches answer you will see something!” “Do they often reply?” “Hell, yes! Every day. Half of the village is already pounded to pieces.” “Ouf!” It is true. A comrade who has been prowling around outside comes back: “The next farmhouse is demolished. The roof is gone and the walls are like a sieve.” “Silence!” growl the sergeants. “Go to sleep. You must fall in at five o’clock to-morrow morning.” The conversations cease. Each one picks out a place, buries himself in the straw, and sinks into sleep as a ship is engulfed by the waves.