They are not careless
of their lives, like brigands, nor blinded by passion like savages.
In spite of the doctrines with which they have been cultivated they
are not inflamed. They are above instinctive excesses. They are not
drunk, either physically or morally. It is in full consciousness, as
in full health and full strength, that they are massed there to hurl
themselves once more into that sort of madman's part imposed on all
men by the madness of the human race. One sees the thought and the
fear and the farewell that there is in their silence, their
stillness, in the mask of tranquillity which unnaturally grips their
faces. They are not the kind of hero one thinks of, but their
sacrifice has greater worth than they who have not seen them will
ever be able to understand.
They are waiting; a waiting that extends and seems eternal. Now and
then one or another starts a little when a bullet, fired from the
other side, skims the forward embankment that shields us and plunges
into the flabby flesh of the rear wall.
The end of the day is spreading a sublime but melancholy light on
that strong unbroken mass of beings of whom some only will live to
see the night. It is raining--there is always rain in my memories of
all the tragedies of the great war. The evening is making ready,
along with a vague and chilling menace; it is about to set for men
that snare that is as wide as the world.
* * * * * *
New orders are peddled from mouth to mouth.
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