Torrential
rain was falling. We were muddled and drenched and hustled by the
flood, and we ate standing in single file, without shelter, under
the dissolving sky. Only by feats of skill could we protect the
bread and bully from the spouts that flowed from every point in
space; and while we ate we put our hands and faces as much as
possible under our cowls. The rain rattled and bounced and streamed
on our limp woven armor, and worked with open brutality or sly
secrecy into ourselves and our food. Our feet were sinking farther
and farther, taking deep root in the stream that flowed along the
clayey bottom of the trench. Some faces were laughing, though their
mustaches dripped. Others grimaced at the spongy bread and flabby
meat, or at the missiles which attacked their skin from all sides at
every defect in their heavy and miry armor-plate.
Barque, who was hugging his mess-tin to his heart, bawled at
Volpatte: "Well then, a lot of sods, you say, that you've seen down
there where you've been?"
"For instance?" cried Blaire, while a redoubled squall shook and
scattered his words; "what have you seen in the way of sods?"
"There are--" Volpatte began, "and then--there are too many of
them, nom de Dieu! There are--"
He tried to say what was the matter with him, but could only repeat,
"There are too many of them!" oppressed and panting. He swallowed a
pulpy mouthful of bread as if there went with it the disordered and
suffocating mass of his memories.
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