This is a colossal funnel-hole, formed of smaller funnels placed
together, a fantastic volcanic crater, scooped there by the guns.
The sight of this convulsion is stupefying; truly it seems that it
must have come from the center of the earth. Such a rending of
virgin strata puts new edge on our attacking fury, and none of us
can keep from shouting with a solemn shake of the head--even just
now when words are but painfully torn from our throats--"Ah, Christ!
Look what hell we've given 'em there! Ah, look!"
Driven as if by the wind, we mount or descend at the will of the
hollows and the earthy mounds in the gigantic fissure dug and
blackened and burned by furious flames. The soil clings to the feet
and we tear them out angrily. The accouterments and stuffs that
cover the soft soil, the linen that is scattered about from sundered
knapsacks, prevent us from sticking fast in it, and we are careful
to plant our feet in this debris when we jump into the holes or
climb the hillocks.
Behind us voices urge us--Forward, boys, forward, nome de Dieu!"
"All the regiment is behind us!" they cry. We do not turn round to
see, but the assurance electrifies our rush once more.
No more caps are visible behind the embankment of the trench we are
nearing. Some German dead are crumbling in front of it, in pinnacled
heaps or extended lines. We are there. The parapet takes definite
and sinister shape and detail; the loopholes--we are prodigiously,
incredibly close!
Something falls in front of us.
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