seven o'clock
But I do not see very much . We sleep in the day . It is June , and there is scarcely any night . 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 .