Existence in the trenches is characterized by a monotony that soon becomes a burden. It is made up of waiting and work: work in which a man is by turns dirt-digger, sentinel, carpenter, and porter. There is much time for rest and repose. It is a special type of life, which recalls that of the sieges of olden days, when armies sat long months at a time facing each other. One does not fight all the time. The vigil is constant, but the struggle is not. There is the incessant watching of the field in front, the unrelaxed tension of stalking the enemy; and at the rear the staleness of inaction. What is there to do? Sleep, certainly. Then find amusement, for the time is long. The hours move slowly, night follows day and day night without bringing change. Therefore, one must exercise his ingenuity. One writes a lot of letters. There is always a relative to enlighten, or a sweetheart to console, or a mother to entertain. Letters arrive which are read and reread. Then the newspapers bring their limited ration of news. We discuss their contents. We learn that the submarine warfare is extending; that the Zeppelins have gone over England; that the Bulgars are attacking the Roumanians; that a great parliamentary speech has explained to the world the causes of the upheaval. Thus we kill a few more minutes. Then ennui returns: dull tediousness that puts the thumbscrews on the brain; homesickness for the distant fireside, for the old life renounced for war; yearning for the past, still near and yet so far. One wanders about and knows not what to do. One fellow has some playing-cards and opens a game. We smoke, and dream, and sew, and clean our arms. We await our turn at sentry duty. It rains. We yawn. The sun comes out, one risks his life to pay a visit to his neighbors. The picturesque ceases to be, by reason of familiarity. One sees nothing of that which at first fixed his attention. The deep trench where crazy grasses hang is a road only too well trodden. The mess is stale, the card-game stupid. One is bored to death and utterly worthless. Then the inveterate wag intervenes. He sings, he “joshes.” He brings a laugh. The dying conversation revives. Those who were dozing sit up again and take notice. Circles form. Each one tells a story, and the long faces spread into smiles. Torpor is banished for a moment. The man who was cutting a cane with his pocket-knife exhibits it. It is fine and much admired. The man who hollowed out an inkstand from a fuse brings it forth. His work is curious, dainty, and ornamental: bravo! A painter is there, an artist, who brings out his album; he has a hundred drawings, warm with color. Each man would like to possess a copy. That is the end: there is nothing more. All this is too brief, and the time is too long. We cast about for something new.