seven in the morning
I know when it is evening by the sound of the firing ; it begins from beyond the marshes at seven o'clock . Moment after moment a bullet comes -- zip -- into my dug-out : scarcely a second passes before there is another zip . The sound of the shot itself is lost amid the general crashing of guns ; there is only the zip of the bullet as it strikes the earth or is embedded in the beams overhead . And so on all through the night , moment after moment , until seven in the morning . There are three of us in the dug-out ; two are playing chess , but I am reading -- the same thing over and over again , for I am tired to death of lying idle , of sleeping and walking . Poor indeed are men 's resources , for in three days we had exhausted all we had to say . Yesterday a soldier who had lost his hand when scouting , came running in to us crying wildly : `` Bayonet me , Towny , Bayonet me ! ''