We can
see the shapeless silhouette of the mass as it plunges into the
gulf. I can almost see the detail of his blown hair over the black
profile of his face.
We debouch upon the height. A great colorless emptiness is outspread
before us. At first one can see nothing but a chalky and stony
plain, yellow and gray to the limit of sight. No human wave is
preceding ours; in front of us there is no living soul, but the
ground is peopled with dead--recent corpses that still mimic agony
or sleep, and old remains already bleached and scattered to the
wind, half assimilated by the earth.
As soon as our pushing and jolted file emerges, two men close to me
are hit, two shadows are hurled to the ground and roll under our
feet, one with a sharp cry, and the other silently, as a felled ox.
Another disappears with the caper of a lunatic, as if he had been
snatched away. Instinctively we close up as we hustle
forward--always forward--and the wound in our line closes of its
own accord. The adjutant stops, raises his sword, lets it fall, and
drops to his knees. His kneeling body slopes backward in jerks, his
helmet drops on his heels, and he remains there, bareheaded, face to
the sky. Hurriedly the rush of the rank has split open to respect
his immobility.
But we cannot see the lieutenant. No more leaders then--Hesitation
checks the wave of humanity that begins to beat on the plateau.
Above the trampling one hears the hoarse effort of our lungs.
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