The track we are
following through the faint grass of the fields is itself a sticky
field streaked with countless parallel ruts, all plowed in the same
line by the feet and the wheels of those who go to the front and
those who go to the rear.
We have to jump over gaping trenches, and this is not always easy,
for the edges have become soft and slippery, and earth-falls have
widened them. Fatigue, too, begins to bear upon our shoulders.
Vehicles cross our path with a great noise and splashing. Artillery
limbers prance by and spray us heavily. The motor lorries are borne
on whirling circles of water around the wheels, with spirting
tumultuous spokes.
As the darkness increases, the jolted vehicles and the horses' necks
and the profiles of the riders with their floating cloaks and slung
carbines stand out still more fantastically against the misty floods
from the sky. Here, there is a block of ammunition carts of the
artillery. The horses are standing and trampling as we go by. We
hear the creaking of axles, shouts, disputes, commands which
collide, and the roar of the ocean of rain. Over the confused
scuffle we can see steam rising from the buttocks of the teams and
the cloaks of the horsemen.
"Look out!" Something is laid out on the ground on our right--a row
of dead. As we go by, our feet instinctively avoid them and our eyes
search them. We see upright boot-soles, outstretched necks, the
hollows of uncertain faces, hands half clenched in the air over the
dark medley.
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