A man arrives running, and speaks to Bertrand, and then Bertrand
turns to us--
"Up you go," he says, "it's our turn."
All move at once. We put our feet on the steps made by the sappers,
raise ourselves, elbow to elbow, beyond the shelter of the trench,
and climb on to the parapet.
* * * * * *
Bertrand is out on the sloping ground. He covers us with a quick
glance, and when we are all there he says, "Allons, forward!"
Our voices have a curious resonance. The start has been made very
quickly, unexpectedly almost, as in a dream. There is no whistling
sound in the air. Among the vast uproar of the guns we discern very
clearly this surprising silence of bullets around us--
We descend over the rough and slippery ground with involuntary
gestures, helping ourselves sometimes with the rifle. Mechanically
the eye fastens on some detail of the declivity, of the ruined
ground, on the sparse and shattered stakes pricking up, at the
wreckage in the holes. It is unbelievable that we are upright in
full daylight on this slope where several survivors remember sliding
along in the darkness with such care, and where the others have only
hazarded furtive glances through the loopholes. No, there is no
firing against us. The wide exodus of the battalion out of the
ground seems to have passed unnoticed! This truce is full of an
increasing menace, increasing. The pale light confuses us.
On all sides the slope is covered by men who, like us, are bent on
the descent.
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