The right leg is straight. The left, whence flowed the
hemorrhage that made him die, has been broken by a shell; it is
twisted into a circle, dislocated, slack, invertebrate. A mournful
irony has invested the last writhe of his agony with the appearance
of a clown's antic.
We arrange him, and lay him straight, and tranquillize the horrible
masks. Volpatte has taken a pocket-book from him and places it
reverently among his own papers, by the side of the portrait of his
own wife and children. That done, he shakes his head: "He--he was
truly a good sort, old man. When he said anything, that was the
proof that it was true. Ah, we needed him badly!"
"Yes," I said, "we had need of him always."
"Ah, la, la!" murmurs Volpatte. and he trembles. Joseph repeats in a
weak voice, "Ah, nom de Dieu! Ah, nom de Dieu!"
The plateau is as covered with people as a public square;
fatigue-parties in detachments, and isolated men. Here and there,
the stretcher-bearers are beginning (patiently and in a small way)
their huge and endless task.
Volpatte leaves us, to return to the trench and announce our new
losses, and above all the great gap left by Bertrand. He says to
Joseph, "We shan't lose sight of you, eh? Write us a line now and
again--just, 'All goes well; signed, Camembert,' eh?" He disappears
among the people who cross each other's path in the expanse now
completely possessed by a mournful and endless rain.
Joseph leans on me and we go down into the ravine.
Pages:
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340