No pack; but
the blanket rolled round the body, and the trenching-tool at the
waist. We unbuckle our blankets, tear them open and roll them up.
Still no word is spoken; each has a steadfast eye and the mouth
forcefully shut. The corporals and sergeants go here and there,
feverishly spurring the silent haste in which the men are bowed:
"Now then, hurry up! Come, come, what the hell are you doing? Will
you hurry, yes or no?"
A detachment of soldiers with a badge of crossed axes on their
sleeves clear themselves a fairway and swiftly delve holes in the
wall of the trench. We watch them sideways as we don our equipment.
"What are they doing, those chaps?"--"It's to climb up by."
We are ready. The men marshal themselves, still silently, their
blankets crosswise, the helmet-strap on the chin, leaning on their
rifles. I look at their pale, contracted, and reflective faces. They
are not soldiers, they are men. They are not adventurers, or
warriors, or made for human slaughter, neither butchers nor cattle.
They are laborers and artisans whom one recognizes in their
uniforms. They are civilians uprooted, and they are ready. They
await the signal for death or murder; but you may see, looking at
their faces between the vertical gleams of their bayonets, that they
are simply men.
Each one knows that he is going to take his head, his chest, his
belly, his whole body, and all naked, up to the rifles pointed
forward, to the shells, to the bombs piled and ready, and above all
to the methodical and almost infallible machine-guns--to all that is
waiting for him yonder and is now so frightfully silent--before he
reaches the other soldiers that he must kill.
Pages:
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307