Then it is evening.
They make us go into a wide dugout.

It appears that an attack is developing somewhere.

From time to time, through a breach contrived between sandbags so decomposed and oozing that they seem to have lived, we go out to a little winterly and mournful crossing, to look about.
We consult the sky to determine the tempest's whereabouts.

We can know nothing.
The artillery fire dazzles and then chokes up our sight.

The heavens are making a tumult of blades.
Monuments of steel break loose and crash above our heads.