The air is now glutted and viewless, it is crossed
and recrossed by heavy blasts, and the murder of the earth continues
all around, deeply and more deeply, to the limit of completion.
There are even other guns which now join in--they are ours. Their
report is like that of the 75's, but louder, and it has a prolonged
and resounding echo, like thunder reverberating among mountains.
"They're the long 120's. They're on the edge of the wood half a mile
away. Fine guns, old man, like gray-hounds. They're slender and
fine-nosed, those guns--you want to call them 'Madame.' They're not
like the 220's--they're all snout, like coal-scuttles, and spit
their shells out from the bottom upwards. The 120's get there just
the same, but among the teams of artillery they look like kids in
bassinettes."
Conversation languishes; here and there are yawns. The dimensions
and weight of this outbreak of the guns fatigue the mind. Our voices
flounder in it and are drowned.
"I've never seen anything like this for a bombardment," shouts
Barque.
"We always say that," replies Paradis.
"Just so," bawls Volpatte. "There's been talk of an attack lately; I
should say this is the beginning of something."
The others say simply, "Ah!"
Volpatte displays an intention of snatching a wink of sleep. He
settles himself on the ground with his back against one wall of the
trench and his feet buttressed against the other wall.
We converse together on divers subjects.
Pages:
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277