"Another day gone by,
another like the rest of 'em," says Volpatte, looking at the
darkening sky.
"You're off it; our day isn't finished," replies Tirette, whose long
experience of calamity has taught him that one must not jump to
conclusions, where we are, even in regard to the modest future of a
commonplace evening that has already begun.
"Allons! Muster!" We join up with the laggard inattention of custom.
With himself each man brings his rifle, his pouches of cartridges,
his water-bottle, and a pouch that contains a lump of bread.
Volpatte is still eating, with protruding and palpitating cheek.
Paradis, with purple nose and chattering teeth, growls. Fouillade
trails his rifle along like a broom. Marthereau looks at a mournful
handkerchief, rumpled and stiff, and puts it back in his pocket. A
cold drizzle is falling, and everybody shivers.
Down yonder we hear a droning chant--"Two shovels, one pick, two
shovels, one pick "The file trickles along to the tool-store,
stagnates at the door, and departs, bristling with implements.
"Everybody here? Gee up!" says the sergeant. Downward and rolling,
we go forward. We know not where we go. We know nothing, except that
the night and the earth are blending in the same abyss.
As we emerge into the nude twilight from the trench, we see it
already black as the crater of a dead volcano. Great gray clouds,
storm-charged, hang from the sky. The plain, too, is gray in the
pallid light; the grass is muddy, and all slashed with water.
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