We have spread out in the trench. The lieutenant, who has jumped to
the other side, is stooping and summoning us with signs and
shouts--"Don't stay there; forward, forward!"
We climb the wall of the trench with the help of the sacks, of
weapons, and of the backs that are piled up there. In the bottom of
the ravine the soil is shot-churned, crowded with jetsam, swarming
with prostrate bodies. Some are motionless as blocks of wood; others
move slowly or convulsively. The barrage fire continues to increase
its infernal discharge behind us on the ground that we have crossed.
But where we are at the foot of the rise it is a dead point for the
artillery.
A short and uncertain calm follows. We are less deafened and look at
each other. There is fever in the eyes, and the cheek-bones are
blood-red. Our breathing snores and our hearts drum in our bodies.
In haste and confusion we recognize each other, as if we had met
again face to face in a nightmare on the uttermost shores of death.
Some hurried words are cast upon this glade in hell--"It's you!
"--"Where's Cocon?"--"Don't know."--"Have you seen the captain?
"--"No."--"Going strong?"--"Yes."
The bottom of the ravine is crossed and the other slope rises
opposite. We climb in Indian file by a stairway rough-hewn in the
ground: "Look out!" The shout means that a soldier half-way up the
steps has been struck in the loins by a shell-fragment; he falls
with his arms forward, bareheaded, like the diving swimmer.
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