Little streams of water
flow freely through them in places, and in spite of tentative
groping we stumble on heaped-up timber. Alongside, our knocks
discover the dim vertical presence of the supporting beams.
The air in this interminable tunnel is vibrating heavily. It is the
searchlight engine that is installed there--we have to pass in front
of it.
After we have felt our deep-drowned way for a quarter of an hour,
some one who is overborne by the darkness and the wet, and tired of
bumping into unknown people, growls, "I don't care--I'm going to
light up."
The brilliant beam of a little electric lamp flashes out, and
instantly the sergeant bellows, "Ye gods! Who's the complete ass
that's making a light? Are you daft? Don't you know it can be seen,
you scab, through the roof?"
The flash-lamp, after revealing some dark and oozing walls in its
cone of light, retires into the night. "Not much you can't see it!"
jeers the man, "and anyway we're not in the first lines." "Ah, that
can't be seen!"
The sergeant, wedged into the file and continuing to advance,
appears to be turning round as he goes and attempting some forceful
observations--"You gallows-bird! You damned dodger!" But suddenly he
starts a new roar--"What! Another man smoking now! Holy hell!" This
time he tries to halt, but in vain he rears himself against the wall
and struggles to stick to it. He is forced precipitately to go with
the stream and is carried away among his own shouts, which return
and swallow him up, while the cigarette, the cause of his rage,
disappears in silence.
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