Don't you hear? Isn't it 'alarm!' they're shouting?"
"Alarm? Are you mad?"
The words were hardly said when a shadow comes in through the low
doorway of our dug-out and cries--"Alarm, 22nd! Stand to arms!"
A moment of silence and then several exclamations. "I knew it,"
murmurs Paradis between his teeth, and he goes on his knees towards
the opening into the molehill that shelters us. Speech then ceases
and we seem to be struck dumb. Stooping or kneeling we bestir
ourselves; we buckle on our waist-belts; shadowy arms dart from one
side to another; pockets are rummaged. And we issue forth pell-mell,
dragging our knapsacks behind us by the straps, our blankets and
pouches.
Outside we are deafened. The roar of gunfire has increased a
hundredfold, to left, to right, and in front of us. Our batteries
give voice without ceasing.
"Do you think they're attacking?" ventures a man. "How should I
know?" replies another voice with irritated brevity.
Our jaws are set and we swallow our thoughts, hurrying, bustling,
colliding, and grumbling without words.
A command goes forth--"Shoulder your packs."--"There's a
counter-command--" shouts an officer who runs down the trench with
great strides, working his elbows, and the rest of his sentence
disappears with him. A counter-command! A visible tremor has run
through the files, a start which uplifts our heads and holds us all
in extreme expectation.
But no; the counter-order only concerns the knapsacks.
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