Vill 
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 Douawmont 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 golde. 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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