Oh, la, la, la! We don our capes and
tent-cloths. We go back unto the dug-out, dabbling, and gathering
mud on our knees, hands, and elbows, for the bottom of the trench is
getting sticky. Once inside, we have hardly time to light a candle,
stuck on a bit of stone, and to shiver all round--"Come on, en
route!"
We hoist ourselves into the wet and windy darkness outside. I can
dimly see Poterloo's powerful shoulders; in the ranks we are always
side by side. When we get going I call to him, "Are you there, old
chap?"--"Yes, in front of you," he cries to me, turning round. As he
turns he gets a buffet in the face from wind and rain, but he
laughs. His happy face of the morning abides with him. No downpour
shall rob him of the content that he carries in his strong and
steadfast heart; no evil night put out the sunshine that I saw
possess his thoughts some hours ago.
We march, and jostle each other, and stumble. The rain is
continuous, and water runs in the bottom of the trench. The
floor-gratings yield as the soil becomes soaked; some of them slope
to right or left and we skid on them. In the dark, too, one cannot
see them, so we miss them at the turnings and put our feet into
holes full of water.
Even in the grayness of the night I will not lose sight of the slaty
shine of Poterloo's helmet, which streams like a roof under the
torrent, nor of the broad back that is adorned with a square of
glistening oilskin. I lock my step in his, and from time to time I
question him and he answers me--always in good humor, always serene
and strong.
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