It was a cripple, as you may say; that means something that doesn't
move. It didn't work very quickly. A snail could have kept pace with
it. We shall remake it. But certainly it won't go any quicker. That
can't be allowed!"
When we reached the top of the hill, Poterloo turned round and threw
a last look over the slaughtered places that we had just visited.
Even more than a minute ago, distance recreated the village across
the remains of trees shortened and sliced that now looked like young
saplings. Better even than just now, the sun shed on that white and
red accumulation of mingled material an appearance of life and even
an illusion of meditation. Its very stones seemed to feel the vernal
revival. The beauty of sunshine heralded what would be, and revealed
the future. The face of the watching soldier, too, shone with a
glamour of reincarnation, and the smile on it was born of the
springtime and of hope. His rosy cheeks and blue eyes seemed
brighter than ever.
We go down into the communication trench and there is sunshine
there. The trench is yellow, dry, and resounding. I admire its
finely geometrical depth, its shovel-smoothed and shining flanks;
and I find it enjoyable to hear the clean sharp sound of our feet on
the hard ground or on the caillebotis--little gratings of wood,
placed end to end and forming a plankway.
I look at my watch. It tells me that it is nine o'clock, and it
shows me, too, a dial of delicate color where the sky is reflected
in rose-pink and blue, and the fine fret-work of bushes that are
planted there above the marges of the trench.
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