The march past of the worn-out and trench-foul veterans comes to an
end among the ironical and almost malevolent faces of these sinister
troglodytes, whom their caverns of mud but half reveal.

Meanwhile, the hours slip away, and evening begins to veil the sky
and darken the things of earth. It comes to blend itself at once
with the blind fate and the ignorant dark minds of the multitude
there enshrouded.

Through the twilight comes the rolling hum of tramping men, and
another throng. rubs its way through.

"Africans!"

They march past with faces red-brown, yellow or chestnut, their
beards scanty and fine or thick and frizzled, their greatcoats
yellowish-green, and their muddy helmets sporting the crescent in
place of our grenade. Their eyes are like balls of ivory or onyx,
that shine from faces like new pennies, flattened or angular. Now
and again comes swaying along above the line the coal-black mask of
a Senegalese sharpshooter. Behind the company goes a red flag with a
green hand in the center.

We watch them in silence. These are asked no questions. They command
respect, and even a little fear.

All the same, these Africans seem jolly and in high spirits. They
are going, of course, to the first line. That is their place, and
their passing is the sign of an imminent attack. They are made for
the offensive.