People liked the bearing of the soldiers. All were delighted to see them so robust, so hardened; more alert than at the beginning, more viril, more manly. The warrior’s helmet graced his forehead like an aureole. The men were fêted and showered with tokens of affection. Long trains brought them home--so ardent, and young, and splendid; shouting their joy in the stations, passing through towns with the air of a victor. How the women admired them! They were treated (in advance) as liberators. Those sober people who still were apprehensive of the outcome, who reckoned up the future and calculated the chances, were looked upon with a reproachful eye. This time it was certain: we would pass! The opening came the 20th of September. A furious storm of artillery saluted the dawn, and set the thunder rolling. It was a prodigious simoon. The sky cracked with the terrible, hot breath; the earth itself bubbled. A deluge of red-hot iron fell. It was more than a noise: it was a tempest, a gigantic roaring, the forge of Vulcan in full action; an entire sector of the front bursting into flame. What a fantastic tornado! All calibers of shells shrieked together. No single voice of cannon could be distinguished in the concert. They were blended in one roll, as if a god had sounded the charge on a gigantic drum. The avalanche of steel fell on the enemy’s breastworks, spattered over the intervening space, let loose billows of smoke, dust, and flames. The very earth seemed to cry out to heaven, as it was pounded to powder and scorched by the fire. Entire sections of trench walls leaped into the air; a giant plough turned over the tunnels. A heavy cloud formed, grew thicker, rolled over the battle-field. The passing hours augmented the uproar. No sooner did the climax appear to be reached than the tumult increased afresh. Massed near the field of carnage, the bivouacked troops were in readiness. Each company had its rôle, and each was ready. Each knew at what hour to join the dance. They were going to pierce through, they would pass! Comrades exchanged encouragement and last promises. All hoped to survive, and pursue the routed foe in a sweeping victory. Our regiment, like others, awaited the call. It had no active part in the festivity, but was present. This was for us a poignant grief. In our sector, not a sound. The cannon were as silent as if every living thing had become a mere spectator of the drama. As the roaring increased in volume from minute to minute, we listened. We divined the scene. We could follow it in the clouds, and in the sounds carried by the breeze. We were like curious, listening neighbors who hear the people next door quarrel and fight. The Germans opposite us remained silent also, and listened, like ourselves. Battle of Champagne! It had not yet a name. It held all the hope of France, a single, united, colossal WILL. For five days France could only listen to the panting of an army in travail, and held her breath.