We speak seldom, but are beginning to think.
We see the stretcher-bearers, whose sharp silhouettes stoop and
grope; they advance linked two and two together by their long
burdens. Yonder on our right one hears the blows of pick and shovel.
I wander into the middle of this gloomy turmoil. In a place where
the embankment has crushed the embankment of the trench into a
gentle slope, some one is seated. A faint light still prevails. The
tranquil attitude of this man as he looks reflectively in front of
him is sculptural and striking. Stooping, I recognize him as
Corporal Bertrand. He turns his face towards me, and I feel that he
is looking at me through the shadows with his thoughtful smile.
"I was coming to look for you," he says; "they're organizing a guard
for the trench until we've got news of what the others have done and
what's going on in front. I'm going to put you on double sentry with
Paradis, in a listening-post that the sappers have just dug."
We watch the shadows of the passers-by and of those who are seated,
outlined in inky blots, bowed and bent in diverse attitudes under
the gray sky, all along the ruined parapet. Dwarfed to the size of
insects and worms, they make a strange and secret stirring among
these shadow-hidden lands where for two years war has caused cities
of soldiers to wander or stagnate over deep and boundless
cemeteries.
Two obscure forms pass in the dark, several paces from us; they are
talking together in low voices--"You bet, old chap, instead of
listening to him, I shoved my bayonet into his belly so that I
couldn't haul it out.
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