We had restored our position, at least a little, since we were already now busy with our work. However it appeared to have been a hopeless beginning. One didn't know where or what to tackle first. We certainly didn't do anything in order to create a defensive bulwark for the coming day (which we all counted along with certain death), but on the contrary, we only did it in order to be able to have ourselves a little rest. No one can relate what it means to be stuck an entire night in his filth. Consequently we threw anything that was loose in front of us as additional cover, such as stones, corpses, dirt, wood, etc. We worked and toiled, despite these things tumbling back numerous times, until we had piled a suitable and relatively high defensive wall before us. However, we were again pleased about this, since everything had succeeded so well for us. In addition towards morning--it had stopped raining--the Arbeiterkompagnie (Labour Company) even brought sandbags up to us. Indeed the mood had already noticeably improved itself while above in the sky a couple of stars stole through some tears in the clouds. As dawn broke, I ordered the rifles to be cleaned of dirt, so that there wouldn't be any delays with their loading and repeating daybreak quickly dwindled. The sky became bluer than I had ever seen it before. The sun came and with it the Welschen shells and fliers.

I could now better review the terrain between the two fronts. The Welsche front lay approximately 60 yards away running parallel beneath ours. Curiously, we lifted our heads, which had become crusted over with mud and peered downwards. The scoundrels seemed to have been waiting for this. Rratsch! Whipped a volley against us. The bald head of a worthy old Jäger sank silently back, along with a Czech. A bright red jet of blood sprang from the mouth of the Patrouilleführer Grunauer. "Unterjäger, help me!" he gurgled to me with a look that turned me hot and cold. Then he fell back into the deep shell hole behind him, within which there already floated a couple of dead Honved. He splashed completely under into the morass. I wanted up, so as to pull him out, but the mud and slime was so sticky, that after some minutes of the greatest exertion, I could only bring out my limbs for they had become numb and without feeling due to the cold and unnatural position. Bloody bubbles twirled slowly upwards in the brown-green mire. Suddenly, his body jerked once more to the surface. I saw only the round shape of his head, which was covered with morass, the two wide open eyes that seemed to spring forth, and his mouth from which there came red and mud brown spurts. He cried to me one more sound that seemed to unite all tones that could be squeezed forth from human agony --I believe he wanted to scream "I'm dying!" Then the high splashing filth again devoured him. To rescue him was not to be. Pity on the gallant warrior, I thought to myself. As I looked up to my left, someone was roaring "Medic! Medic!" like a mad man. It was Gspandl, the most lazy and worthless in my Zug. I truly disliked him for this, and moreover, because he was even bad-mouthed and dreadfully infested with lice. But now it utterly got to me, at last, since his cry was so remarkable piercing. I crawled over to him and cut off his equipment. He had a throat wound. He assembled yet enough strength to be able to haul himself down to a small branch of the railway. Of course, now if there had only been visible one such scoundrel of the Welschen. I burned with rage over these bandits ⁽¹⁹⁾ They had very nice cover and shot forth from slits masked with grass. And how well they shot! No wonder of course, as in Italy each and every young scamp raced around all winter with a carbine, shooting birds that come from the maledetta terra tedesca.

Soon the Artillerie shells came too. Shameful Devils. I become bad tempered yet to this day when I think about this.

How they howlingly crashed into the heaps of corpses that formed our cover--premm--and the shreds flew! Immediately as it started, I received a piece of intestines from a half-decayed Honved's corpse in my corpse. All the languages in the world can't describe the atrociousness of what came now. Within a moment, the rampart that we had created in the night was swirling high into the air. The muck from the shell holes behind was splashing house high. There was an unbroken crackling, crashing, and howling, as well as the insane shouting and gurgling of the wounded and dying. I pressed myself to the earth and thought of nothing other than that each new breath I took had been a death reprieve which had been granted to me. All at once everything was still.

Was the bombardment or my life ended? I looked up. It could hardly be possible that one out of all still lived. And yet, little by little, everyone who was not wounded raised their heads. I rallied just about half of them. But, otherwise, it appeared dreadful. A few steaming ribs and a piece of scalp lay right next to me. They must have been from Marchler--who had had such beautiful black hair. He was a fanatical Social-Democrat, but also a good and true soldier. Nearly all the other wounded rolled moaning and wailing in the muck. There wasn't the slightest possibility for dressing their wounds. Indeed not one time could one see where the wounds were, other then when there was a limb missing, since we were so heavily covered over with the filth. Some few could, of course, pull themselves together and haul themselves down to the Sanitätslern (medical orderlies). Certainly they often collapsed.