But he was sullen and silent, and tried
to get away.
"Well, what about it? Volpatte, have you nothing to tell us?"
"Tell us all about the hospital and the sick-leave, old cock, from
the day when you set off in your bandages, with your snout in
parenthesis! You must have seen something of the official shops.
Speak then, nome de Dieu!"
"I don't want to say anything at all about it," said Volpatte.
"What's that? What are you talking about?"
"I'm fed up--that's what I am! The people back there, I'm sick of
them--they make me spew, and you can tell 'em so!"
"What have they done to you?"
"A lot of sods, they are!" says Volpatte.
There he was, with his head as of yore, his ears "stuck on again"
and his Mongolian cheekbones--stubbornly set in the middle of the
puzzled circle that besieged him; amid we felt that the mouth fast
closed on ominous silence meant high pressure of seething
exasperation in the depth of him.
Some words overflowed from him at last. He turned round--facing
towards the rear and the bases--and shook his fist at infinite
space. "There are too many of them," he said between his teeth,
"there are too many!" He seemed to be threatening and repelling a
rising sea of phantoms.
A little later, we questioned him again, knowing well that his anger
could not thus be retained within, and that the savage silence would
explode at the first chance.
It was in a deep communication trench, away back, where we had come
together for a meal after a morning spent in digging.
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