However, it is impossible to complain of your fix when you have flowers in your dugout!
During the morning a heavy detonation shakes the entire hill. It is these German pigs, decidedly, who have exploded the first one. They choose their time well.
Everyone dashes down to lend a hand to our comrades who are on duty. We shall have to reëstablish the trench and evacuate the wounded.
If you attempt to go fast you get nowhere. The mud glues itself to your feet. The ground smells bad.
But it was not serious, only a warning, and soon I am back in the dugout, dripping from the neck down. It is the time to write.
I am alone with Cadet Flament, who, stripped of his tunic and wearing his blue jersey, has rather the air of a collegian. He is, however, a brave young fellow, our little Flament----
"Say, Flament, you had better write a letter home. It is three weeks now since you have given them any news."
And little Flament began at once to write a long letter to his mother. She must be proud of her son. He is the only child. She lives at Château-Thierry. But what uneasiness, knowing he is at Eparges----
After having written the first letter, Flament writes the second. This one also is to a woman! The smile on his lips when he writes leads me to believe that this young rascal has a little friend or a fiancée----
I am certain of it when I see him place in a little box an aluminum ring which he has made himself, and some flowers from the Eparges, mingled with those we had at our banquet last night----
"Lieutenant, when you go down to-night, it will be very kind of you, if you will take these letters and this little package----"
"Gladly, _mon petit_," and I placed in my pocket, the letter for his mother, the one for the "other," and the little box destined for her also.
Flament begins to put on his shoes which he has vainly tried to dry out--. It will be necessary to keep them in the stove for three days to obtain this result.
Without question he has written to the woman he loves--he grumbles at the weather, the rain, at the cursed mud, at the boches----
Ah! what wouldn't he give to pay those boches back for having began this holocaust----
Suddenly an explosion, more violent than the one before, shook us in our chairs.