We march and march, over fields still ghostly and foot-worn, under a
sky where ragged clouds unfurl themselves upon the blackening
expanse--which seems to have befouled itself by prolonged contact
with so many multitudes of sorry humanity.
Then we go down again into the communication trenches. To reach them
we make a wide circuit, so that the rearguard can see the whole
company, a hundred yards away, deployed in the gloom, little obscure
figures sticking to the slopes and following each other in loose
order, with their tools amid their rifles pricking up on each side
of their heads, a slender trivial line that plunges in and raises
its arms as if in entreaty.
These trenches--still of the second lines--are populous. On the
thresholds of the dug-outs, where cart-cloths and skins of animals
hang and flap, squatting and bearded men watch our passing with
expressionless eyes, as if they were looking at nothing. From
beneath other cloths, drawn down to the ground, feet are projected,
and snores.
"Nom de Dieu! It's a long way!" the trampers begin to grumble. There
is an eddy and recoil in the flow.
"Halt!" The stop is to let others go by. We pile ourselves up,
cursing, on the walls of the trench. It is a company of
machine-gunners with their curious burdens.
There seems to be no end to it, and the long halts are wearying.
Muscles are beginning to stretch. The everlasting march is
overwhelming us. We have hardly got going again when we have to
recoil once more into a traverse to let the relief of the
telephonists go by.
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