When the rain was less frequent in the winter, one could feel somewhat at peace.
On the front lines of the River Somme, the French Army achieved a level of detachment from worldly troubles.
Under the morning sky, a light rain was falling, with the smell of rotting corpses filling the air. Murky water pooled at their feet, and occasionally a whistling shell would fly overhead, resulting in a wave of mud and water upon impact.
However, the soldiers entertained themselves within the trenches.
Some were sleeping soundly in the dugouts, others were huddled under rain capes carving pieces of wood with their bayonets, and some were catching rainwater with their upturned helmets while carefully shaving in fragments of mirrors.
