A hundred times the tempest threw us to the ground with its slimy and putrid spray. It bounded upwards at our chests and hurled wooden debris and shreds of corpses at our heads, it seeped into our throats and flowed amongst our legs, where it rolled stones, weapon debris, wire and shreds of corrugated iron under our stumbling feet. Such were the curses, which we thrust aside on this occasion, material that even the earth couldn't support. At last this communication trench came to an end, and we were in the line. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God! Wasn't the Dnjestr indeed a Paradise! That this should have been a position! Not a trace of chest protection if one disregarded the heaps of corpses that lay in some spots in layers--four to five deep. The total cover was composed of a depression that formed the "Schützengraben" (trench) out of the numerous consecutive shell holes that rose up the mountain one next to the other. There were often genuine ponds if one came upon a crater from a 28cm shell. Until bursting, the bloated corpses would float on top of the multi-colored opalescent mire. Next to and underneath them were wood debris, shrapnel cases, touch wood, twisted rifles, broken bayonets, lime chloride, shredded sand bags, smashed armored shields, back packs, regimental pieces, roofing felt, coarse blankets, shreds of wire, corrugated iron debris, sticks of roots from torn out Black Pine trees (which had been planted in their time with unending pains), splinters, shattered by the exploding shells like icicles and only the Devil knows yet what all else. So it appeared as we got there. There faintly came the order "down!" Consequently, it was into the mud on the edge of a hellhole. The morass gurglingly closed over my rear end. In this manner we lay there. It became always ever darker, with the rain becoming thinner and more constant. Here and there a shot in the vicinity, a chirp of a small Italian bullet, a clattering or, a round of rapid fire above on the summit, a flare, the rumble of a "Revolver Kanone" a juicy curse soon here, soon there, again a few seconds of quiet, then an Italian search light nosed about over here from Gradiska--so passed the hours. The cursing grew and became heavier.

Near to me one said:

"You. Unterjäger, I can't stand this any longer!" ⁽¹⁵⁾

"Me too" said another from further above.

"Stop the chatter." I said to him, "You must, and I must also."

The one near to me: "You, if this lasts any longer, then I might shoot myself."

"Shit man!" --Again it is quiet. Then a Czech, a detailed 36er, again cries down with: ⁽¹⁶⁾

"Pane Unterjäge, I can't stand this!" "Quiet Czech." I said again.

But I myself was already to the point of howling. I drew out my watch and waited until the Welsche searchlight was so obliging, as to illuminate it for me. This didn't take long; it was 10:30. Damn it. I thought to myself, only three hours elapsed and we must hold for 24. That has to be what takes place. The rain also became heavier. "You." said the one next to me "think the Italians have it so wet as we do?" "I think not." "Well for heavens sake, do you know what I think would happen if we blocked the brook up there?"

"Yes!" I roared full of joy. For just a piece further above us, was a favorable point for this, since a section of the rampart still remained intact there. If we were to remove the sandbags and block the trench with them, then the brook would shoot down over onto the Italians.

After much exertion, I succeeded in extracting my frost-numb bottom from the rubber-like morass and stood myself up. There was no danger with this because it was too dark and gloomy for the Italians to see the others and me. Consequently I waded up there, with my Kameraden behind me. One after the other we put the sandbags down there, and thereby shifted this "Communication Trench Brook." The water had, in the meantime, already carried the wildest of the filth to the valley, thereby also making the work easier for us. Soon the water had broken through the rampart and the ditch had been shifted. To weigh down our dam we even threw on a couple of corpses. Immediately we heard the "Polentahengste" ⁽¹⁸⁾ cursing, shouting, and making confused noises. The brook shot again wildly downwards and tore with it every possible filth that was in its way. The others had also stood up a little in the meantime, and we now celebrated like children, no, like "Karl May'sche" Sioux Indians ⁽²⁸⁾ after a victory.