VIII 

 THE ATTAS AT HOME 



CLAMBERING through white, pasty mud which 

 stuck to our boots by the pound, peering through 

 bitter cold mist which seemed but a thinner skim 

 of mud, drenched by flurries of icy drops shaken 

 from the atmosphere by a passing moan and a 

 crash, breathing air heavy with a sweet, horrible, 

 penetrating odor such was the world as it ex- 

 isted for an hour one night, while I and the Com- 

 mandant of Douaumont wandered about com- 

 pletely lost, on the top of his own fort. We 

 finally stumbled on the little grated opening 

 through which the lookout peered unceasingly 

 over the landscape of mud. The mist lifted and 

 we rediscovered the cave-like entrance, watched 

 for a moment the ominous golden dumb-bells 

 rising from the premier ligne, scraped our boots 

 on a German helmet and went down again into 

 the strangest sanctuary in the world. 



This was the vision which flashed through my 

 mind as I began vigil at an enormous nest of 



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