says Paradis, sharply, "they're shouting in the trench.
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. No pack; but the
blanket rolled round the body, and the trenching-tool at the waist. We
unbuckle our blankets, tear them open and roll them up. Still no word
is spoken; each has a steadfast eye and the mouth forcefully shut. The
corporals and sergeants go here and there, feverishly spurring the
silent haste in which the men are bowed: "Now then, hurry up! Come,
come, what the hell are you doing? Will you hurry, yes or no?"

A detachment of soldiers with a badge of crossed axes on their sleeves
clear themselves a fairway and swiftly delve holes in the wall of the
trench. We watch them sideways as we don our equipment.

"What are they doing, those chaps?"--"It's to climb up by."

We are ready. The men marshal themselves, still silently, their
blankets crosswise, the helmet-strap on the chin, leaning on their
rifles. I look at their pale, contracted, and reflective faces. They
are not soldiers, they are men. They are no