It is they this time who have sprung the mine. There will be many casualties!
It was raining; but at the same moment the cannonade raged. French and German shells tore through the air with frightful screams, an acrid smoke hung between Montgirmont and Eparges, machine-guns kicked up a deafening tumult--you damned coffee-mills--_va!_
Flament preceded me--he walked with his head high. How good-looking he is with his Tam O'Shanter cocked over one ear in the midst of bursting projectiles, face to the enemy----
A 77 hits him squarely, carrying away his thigh and half of his face----
My sergeant and two of his sappers collect the pieces. They carry this poor corpse, still heaving and stained with mud, into our little wooden chapel a few steps away----
An hour later, the flurry being over, I go again to see him with LeBlond. I have taken the flowers of the night before and placed them respectfully on his breast----
Poor young chap! He is unrecognizable. Can this be the happy little fellow of the night before?
On leaving the chapel, I notice that LeBlond is terribly affected and I say nothing to him. We arrive at the dugout where our brave captain, covered with mud, sobs like a child for his lost friend----
"_Mon vieux_, you are down-hearted--go with me along the whole first line--we have our dead to avenge! we must not weep for them----"
During the night LeBlond and I return to Verdun. Before retiring I reach in my pockets to empty them. Two letters and a little box rest in my fingers. I think a long time of these souvenirs of death----
After hesitating some moments, I say to my friend:
"Decidedly, I will send them to-morrow. These poor people will not learn too soon the unhappiness they bring!"
THE PHILOSOPHICAL POILU, EPARGES. _December_, 1915.
You will not believe me, but this morning at break of day, we found ourselves in mud up to our middle!
In the trenches and in the _boyaux_,[18] it was always the same thing--the sector was completely calm. _Parbleu!_ the others in front of us must suffer exactly the same hardships.
I am numbed! For four days I have been struggling in this damned mud.
Woevre plain is thick with mist this morning and Champlon, seen from up there, resembles one of these pasteboard villages over which a miscreant youngster has poured water.