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left. Come in through Post Number 8 on our right. They’ll send up red flares. Get Lejeune and get ready. Then go up to Number 8 and see that they understand. Then report to my dugout. And warn all the sentries on your way back that a patrol will be out. We’ll tell the rest of them as we go along to the left. Now hurry up. And by the way, see to it that you make your behavior more respectful to me, especially when there are others around. None of that Pierre stuff, understand?”
    â€œYes, Pierre. I mean, sir.”
    â€œI’m not fooling now. I mean it. It just makes things worse for me. And it will for you too, if you’re not careful. This is my dugout. Report back here.”
    Roget bent down, stepped sideways into the wall of the trench and disappeared.
    â€œHe looked as if he was bowing to me,” Didier said to himself. “What a louse he is, with his little gold stripe. Why the devil didn’t they send the Corsican with us? He’s the kind of man you want on patrol.”
    Didier went on down the trench until he saw two boxes of rifle ammunition protruding from a niche in the wall. He passed the boxes, stooped suddenly, and also disappeared from the trench. He went down three or four steps, groping, until his hand touched a blanket. The blanket felt damp, slightly oily and heavy. He pulled it aside and adjusted it carefully behind him. There was a dim light, far below him, a smell of charcoal and of men, and the sound of voices. He went down thirty or forty steps more and came into the main gallery of the dugout. It was warm and comfortable there, and it seemed very remote from the war. A double tier of bunks lined one wall. These were occupied mostly by N.C.O.’s. The men were stretched out on the floor. All of them were asleep, except a group of three who were sitting around a candle stuck in a wine bottle, talking. The dugout was not crowded, and most of the men who were there were old-timers. Didier, who always read the signs, put two and two together and noted that the recruits were being used for the working parties, ration details, and other front-line duties. This was as it should be.
    â€œWhat’s new?” said one of the men near the candle.
    â€œPatrol. Where’s Lejeune?”
    â€œHe’s that fog-horn, down the end there.” Turning back to his companions, he went on, “. . . No, by God, they’re not as mad as that. Why, we haven’t had any rest. I heard we were going in for a day or two while—”
    â€œWell, why have we taken over only half a regimental frontage then? The same one the Tirailleurs did for their attack. We’re as thick as fleas around here. And now this patrol . . .”
    Didier had found Lejeune and was working over him, trying to wake him up.
    â€œCome on, show a leg. We’ve got to go on patrol.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou heard. Patrol.”
    â€œI can’t. I’m all in. Get somebody else. Leave me alone.”
    â€œCome on, get up, will you? I can’t get anybody else. Captain’s orders. You and me and the lieutenant.”
    Lejeune began to skirmish for time:
    â€œWho? Paolacci?”
    â€œNo. Roget.”
    â€œThat bastard!”
    â€œYes. Come on. We’re late now.”
    â€œWhat time is it?”
    â€œAbout two-thirty.” Didier, joining in the skirmish, purposely advanced the hour.
    â€œTwo-thirty, eh . . .”
    â€œYes, two-thirty. And if you don’t get a move on, we’ll get caught by the dawn and have to spend the day out there.” Didier gave Lejeune a slight kick. Because of his impatience, the kick turned out to be less slight than he had intended.
    â€œIf that’s the way you’re going to act about it, you know where you can stick your patrol,” said Lejeune.
    â€œAnd if that’s the way you’re going to act about it, you know where I’m going to stick my bayonet. Come on, Paul, get up. I asked the