Across the cloven land it
looked like the frightful spitting of some volcano, piled up in the
bowels of the earth.
A diabolical uproar surrounds us. We are conscious of a sustained
crescendo, an incessant multiplication of the universal frenzy. A
hurricane of hoarse and hollow banging, of raging clamor, of
piercing and beast-like screams, fastens furiously with tatters of
smoke upon the earth where we are buried up to our necks, and the
wind of the shells seems to set it heaving and pitching.
"Look at that," bawls Barque, "and me that said they were short of
munitions!"
"Oh, la, la! We know all about that! That and the other fudge the
newspapers squirt all over us!"
A dull crackle makes itself audible amidst the babel of noise. That
slow rattle is of all the sounds of war the one that most quickens
the heart.
"The coffee-mill! [note 1] One of ours, listen. The shots come
regularly, while the Boches' haven't got the same length of time
between the shots; they go
crack--crack-crack-crack--crack-crack--crack--"
"Don't cod yourself, crack-pate; it isn't an unsewing-machine at
all; it's a motor-cycle on the road to 31 dugout, away yonder."
"Well, I think it's a chap up aloft there, having a look round from
his broomstick," chuckles Pepin, as he raises his nose and
sweeps the firmament in search of an aeroplane.
A discussion arises, but one cannot say what the noise is, and
that's all. One tries in vain to become familiar with all those
diverse disturbances.
Pages:
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268