A l’hopital St. Andre de Luhzac,

September 30, 1915 Mademoiselle,

I am writing you tonight a little more at length than I was able to do this morning—­then I had not the time, as my nurse was waiting beside my bed to take the card to the post.  I wrote it the moment I was able, at the same time that I wrote to my family.  I hope it reached you.

I am going to tell you in as few words as possible, how the day passed.  The attack began the 25th, at exactly quarter past nine in the morning.  The preparatory bombardment had been going on since the 22d.  All the regiments had been assembled the night before in their shelters, ready to leap forward.

At daybreak the bombardment recommenced—­a terrible storm of shells of every calibre—­bombs, torpedoes—­flew overhead to salute the Boches, and to complete the destruction which had been going on for three days.

Without paying attention to the few obus which the Boches sent over in reply to our storm, we all mounted the parapets to get a view of the scene.  All along our front, in both directions, all we could see was a thick cloud of dust and smoke.  For four hours we stood there, without saying a word, waiting the order to advance; officers, common soldiers, young and old, had but one thought,—­to get into it and be done with it as quickly as possible.  It was just nine o’clock when the officers ordered us into line, ready to advance,—­sac au dos, bayonets fixed, musettes full of grenades and asphyxiating bombs.  Everyone of us knew that he was facing death out there, but I saw nowhere the smallest sign of shrinking, and at quarter past nine, when we got the signal to start, one cry:  “En avant, et vive la France!” burst from thousands and thousands of throats, as we leaped out of the trenches, and it seemed to me that it was but one bound before we were on them.

Once there I seem to remember nothing in detail.  It was as if, by enchantment, that I found myself in the midst of the struggle, in heaps of dead and dying.  When I fell, and found myself useless in the fight, I dragged myself, on my stomach, towards our trenches.  I met stretcher-bearers who were willing to carry me, but I was able to crawl, and so many of my comrades were worse off, that I refused.  I crept two kilometres like that until I found a dressing-station.  I was suffering terribly with the bullet in my ankle.  They extracted it there and dressed the ankle, but I remained, stretched on the ground, two days before I was removed, and I had nothing to eat until I reached here yesterday—­four days after I fell.  But that could not be helped.  There were so many to attend to.

I will let you know how I get on, and I hope for news from you.  In the meantime I send you my kindest regards, and my deep gratitude.

Your big friend,

LlTIGUE, A.

I thought you might be interested to see what sort of a letter a real poilu writes, and Litigue is just a big workman, young and energetic.