Our Sergeant approached. He was quite unafraid and had a rather bored
look on his face. Two men were walking beside him. One of them, a
Corporal, who a few hours before had complained that we were having no
excitement, was saying in a strained, halting voice, that he felt very
unwell, that he had hurt his knee, and would like to go back to camp.
The other, a small, broad-shouldered, full-chested, squat individual,
with a flat nose and a brutal face--the champion light-weight boxer of
our unit--implored the Sergeant in whining tones to let him go home. The
Sergeant, however, told him to shut up and go on with his work.

Gradually the firing became less and less frequent, until finally it
died down altogether. Soon the big yellow disc of the moon rose above
the tree-tops and all was silent except for the croaking of the frogs.

We finished emptying the trucks and then sat down inside them. The
engine came along, rattling and puffing. It was coupled to the train,
and the return journey began.

The landscape was plainly visible in the light of the rising moon.
Shell-holes, torn trees, and ruined houses decreased in number. We
passed a straw-thatched cottage nestling amid a group of bushes and
poplars. A light shone from the window, a dog barked. A bat flitted
silently past. It seemed as though the uproar of the cannonade had been
a dream.

The engine stopped at the siding. We jumped out of the trucks and
retired into our tents. Not a word was spoken by anyone.

The following day we again received orders to proceed to the terminal
siding by the light railway.