Thus these helmeted warriors will here perform the work of
the redresser of wrongs as they restore their full shape to the
fields and make level the cavities already half filled by cargoes of
invaders.
* * * * * *
Some one calls me from the other side of the trench, a man sitting
on the ground and leaning against a stake. It is Papa Ramure.
Through his unbuttoned greatcoat and jacket I see bandages around
his chest. "The ambulance men have been to tuck me up," he says, in
a weak and stertorous voice, "but they can't take me away from here
before evening. But I know all right that I'm petering out every
minute."
He jerks his head. "Stay a bit," he asks me. He is much moved, and
the tears are flowing. He offers his hand and holds mine. He wants
to say a lot of things to me and almost to make confession. "I was a
straight man before the war," he says, with trickling tears; "I
worked from morning to night to feed my little lot. And then I came
here to kill Boches. And now, I've got killed. Listen, listen,
listen, don't go away, listen to me--"
"I must take Joseph back--he's at the end of his strength. I'll come
back afterwards."
Ramure lifted his streaming eyes to the wounded man. "Not only
living, but wounded! Escaped from death! Ah, some women and children
are lucky! All right, take him, take him, and come back--I hope I
shall be waiting for you--"
Now we must climb the other slope of the ravine, and we enter the
deformed and maltreated ditch of the old Trench 97.
Pages:
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344