We are chatting as of yore, as not long since. But the necessity of
speaking in low tones distinguishes our remarks and imposes on them
a lugubrious tranquillity.
* * * * * *
Something unusual has happened. For the last three months the
sojourn of each unit in the first-line trenches has been four days.
Yet we have now been five days here and there is no mention of
relief. Some rumors of early attack are going about, brought by the
liaison men and those of the fatigue-party that renews our rations
every other night--without regularity or guarantee. Other portents
are adding themselves to the whispers of offensive--the stopping of
leave, the failure of the post, the obvious change in the officers,
who are serious and closer to us. But talk on this subject always
ends with a shrug of the shoulders; the soldier is never warned what
is to be done with him; they put a bandage on his eyes, and only
remove it at the last minute. So, "We shall see."--"We can only
wait."
We detach ourselves from the tragic event foreboded. Is this because
of the impossibility of a complete understanding, or a despondent
unwillingness to decipher those orders that are sealed letters to
us, or a lively faith that one will pass through the peril once
more? Always, in spite of the premonitory signs and the prophecies
that seem to be coming true, we fall back automatically upon the
cares of the moment and absorb ourselves in them--hunger, thirst,
the lice whose crushing ensanguines all our nails, the great
weariness that saps us all.
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