The day went on under continuous bombardment. I no longer knew how many men I still had, or whether even one of the 7th Jäger, which were attached to my Zug, was alive. My four Kameraden to my left were still healthy. I ordered that the word be passed to report back who, if anyone, was still alive to our left. My God even that was also denied. Our position was constantly enveloped in the clouds of the Artillerie shells; our ears had already spent themselves in the hellish noise caused by the exploding of the big Italian shells. That is to say, our hearing nerves were exhausted and many were to be permanently affected. The exploding of a shell came to me as if from a small paper cannon and the crackling of rifles was no longer audible. Similarly, I could also only barely hear my own voice. To me this was a justice of sorts, for at least I couldn't hear the surely spine tingling wailing of those two Jäger above me who had had their guts torn out by a shell fragment. I only saw the veins in their throats, which were swollen to the point of bursting, the blood gurgling from their mouths, the whites of their eyes, and their hands, which were bloodied from rooting about on the stony ground with genuine agony.

So it now continued for hours. I thought of nothing and acted unconsciously. When the Welschen would try and start an attack, I would scream the order to shoot and shoot good! There were few that escaped whom I had taken my sights on. We always threw them back again. And how easily! Our numbers were always dwindling, but despite this, they always ran back again. Towards afternoon they suspended their Artillerie fire. I again. Towards afternoon they suspended their Artillerie fire. I again slightly returned to humanity. I again felt my existence or with a word, I was consciously able to think. With a sense of terror, I harbored the ammunition, which I now perceived was threatening to run out. Quickly, I sent two men down to the Tunnel after a full crate of cartridges and at the same time, I also gave them the situation report to pass on to the Oberleutnant. I permitted the removal of ammunition from the dead and wounded; thus we were again able to assemble a very small supply. Twelve of my men were still healthy. The others lay dead or dying in their filthy troughs, or they had already drowned and sunk to the bottom of the pools in the shell holes.

I now wanted to personally inquire for myself as to what was wrong to our left. So, I slid on my belly up towards their position like a plant-worm. Again and again I cam upon the dead and dying. "Water!" "Help me!" "Bind me." "I'm hit, my end has come!" "Mother!" "Greet my family back home!"--"Must I die!" Thus and similarly they had called to me. Naturally there were also other dreadful scourges down there which I haven't written down--I couldn't linger anywhere and wasn't able to help anyone. My God that was difficult. Dear, dear, Kameraden were down there, splendid men body and soul.

At last, I again hit onto a fresh Zug of the 7^th Jäger Bataillon. Heaven help us! Between here and my position there was a stretch of about 200 paces in which there wasn't a single battleworthy man. To be sure, the "Katzelmacher" could stroll through there in a parade march, without us being able to do them much harm. A hot flash passed through all my limbs. The Welschen could storm us at any moment--then the position which had been entrusted to me would be in the care of the Devil himself. Certainly I couldn't defend it against the innumerable Italians with only a handful of men. I ran down to my men, not once taking the time to watch the ground and protect myself. I at all times stared only down at the Italians to see whether or not they were already coming, and thereby kicked a dying Kamerad right in the face. I couldn't do anything about it. It had done me more pain than him; namely in my heart. Having arrived back down to my position, I saw that the ammunition also still wasn't there. I yelled to my second in command that he should immediately go back to speed up the ammunition carriers and tell the Oberleutnant that he should, no he must, under all circumstances, send me a Zug as reinforcement, otherwise the position would be lost. It seemed to be too late, for down by the Welschen the pagan uproar had started--as they were already coming forward, crouching and darting quick as cats. I thought not of danger, death, of being wounded, or of being taken prisoner. I thought only about the disgrace of it being related to the Bataillon, that it had been I, under nose command the position had been lost. Just not that, God willing, just not that! The fear of this was more vexing then the fear of death. I roared like a madman to my men "Shoot! Shoot! Shoot!" and I myself shot what was anyhow scarcely possible. The Welschen scoundrels seemed know the unoccupied portion of our front precisely, as their attack was aimed exactly thereon. A lump of mud fell into the breech of my rifle which I had just opened and became stuck therein. I didn't take the time to thoroughly clean it out but hit the breech shut with all of my might and shot. Again one of them threw his arms high and then collapsed. I wanted to re-cock but the breech wouldn't open. I pulled like madman. To the left of us the enemy was almost in our trenches--but breech didn't come out.

"The ammunition is exhausted." cried the men next to me. Some had loaded dirty cartridges so they were now having the same problem as myself. On our left, the men of the 7^th Jäger with whom I had just been, couldn't support us any longer because it was no longer possible for them to take hold of the Italian's flank due to a natural traverse in our position, formed by a crest of rocks. I grabbed a rock and pushed on the breech bolt with all my weight--it thereby sprang open. I tore out the magazine and wanted to clean the casing containing the feeding mechanism--but of course with what? There wasn't a thread on me hadn't been covered over with a thick crust of mud. Then--I don't know how--a thought came to me. I took off my cap and tore out the lining, which still hadn't become muddy and used it to wipe the dirt out of the cartridge casing. But in the meantime, the enemy was already in the trenches to our left. They scurried in like ants by the dozen. "Let's go. If we sit any longer we'll be taken prisoner!" the man at my side cried to me. "Mount Bayonets!" I roared to him as my answer, with lungs nearly bursting with rage. This was an unnecessary order, if one took it literally, for we had anyhow already fixed our "Pokers" earlier. It served merely as the call for hand-to-hand fighting. Just then the two men with the crate of ammunition whisked behind me. I flew off to it like a hawk and tore the lid off. And Hurray! They had also brought hand grenades! I laughed with joy as I threw the cartons of cartridges to my men. Despite this I wouldn't have had anymore time, had the Welschen not been as cowardly as dogs. But each of them wanted to protect himself against us behind some sandbags and consequently no one wanted to be the first to come at us. They strove to create a covering against our flanking fire with reels of wire, instead of coming straight at us along the trench with bare iron. If we had been in their position, we would have cleaned out the 30 or so men that we still had in the trench, without hesitation. Naturally, we didn't allow this gang any time to carry out their intention, but on the contrary, we blew off a very strong fire at them with our new ammunition. This soon got to their nerves; for we had hardly concentrated our good and well aimed rapid fire upon them than they started something of a pagan hullabaloo over there. One couldn't really make out what they screamed as each strove to push the other forward and thereby utilize him as cover. We peppered our shots into the crowd with bestial delight. A Czech behind me struck a hand grenade and threw it at the Italians. Naturally, it fell much too short despite the fact that this Czech was a good "hurler' the "Ceskey" could all throw well. I was already wanting to curse back to the "Böhm," ⁽²¹⁾ on account of this flittering away of the munitions, when I saw with joy and astonishment that the "Katzelmacher" were hurriedly running away. "Nienta granata!" they cried in high "Caruso-like" tones as they were rolling about more than they ran back towards their original position, having thrown everything which was loose from their bodies. We cheered and bawled like silly Berliners. The "Böhm" said: "joje kaketooro" as he stuck a "Pfriern" of tobacco to his seal-like snout. In any case, he certainly attributed the enemy's flight to the effect of his grenade. If he survives the war he will no doubt relate this to his countrymen in Caslau or Leitomicl with proud satisfaction. I don't begrudge him the glory. He was furthermore one of the best from among our 36er.