All the terror-struck inhabitants roll about
in compact masses across the miserable tunnel, as if in the pitching
hold of a great ship that strikes the rocks.
The aviator, as upright as he can get and with his neck on the
ceiling, waves his arms and appeals to God, asks Him what He is
called, what is His real name. Overthrown by the blast and cast upon
the others, I see him who, bare of breast and his clothes gaping
like a wound, reveals the heart of a Christ. The greatcoat of the
man who still monotonously repeats, "What's the use of worrying?"
now shows itself all green, bright green, the effect of the picric
acid no doubt released by the explosion that has staggered his
brain. Others--the rest, indeed--helpless and maimed, move and creep
and cringe, worm themselves into the corners. They are like moles.
poor, defenseless beasts, hunted by the hellish hounds of the guns.
The bombardment slackens, and ends in a cloud of smoke that still
echoes the crashes, in a quivering and burning after-damp. I pass
out through the breach; and still surrounded and entwined in the
clamor of despair, I arrive under the free sky, in the soft earth
where mingled planks and legs are sunk. I catch myself on some
wreckage; it is the embankment of the trench. At the moment when I
plunge into the communication trenches they are visible a long way;
they are still gloomily stirring, still filled by the crowd that
overflows from the trenches and flows without end towards the
refuges.
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