The way by
which we have come is stopped up with men. It is the block absolute.
At all costs we must try to regain the lost trench--which is alleged
to be on our left--by trickling through some sap or other. Utterly
wearied and unnerved, the men break into gesticulations and violent
reproaches. They trudge awhile, then drop their tools and halt. Here
and there are compact groups--you can glimpse them by the light of
the star-shells--who have let themselves fall to the ground.
Scattered afar from south to north, the troop waits in the merciless
rain.
The lieutenant who is in charge and has led us astray, wriggles his
way along the men in quest of some lateral exit. A little trench
appears, shallow and narrow.
"We most go that way, no doubt about it," the officer hastens to
say. "Come, forward, boys."
Each man sulkily picks up his burden. But a chorus of oaths and
curses rises from the first who enter the little sap: "It's a
latrine!"
A disgusting smell escapes from the trench, and those inside halt
butt into each other, and refuse to advance. We are all jammed
against each other and block up the threshold.
"I'd rather climb out and go in the open!" cries a man. But there
are flashes rending the sky above the embankments on all sides, and
the sight is so fearsome of these jets of resounding flame that
overhang our pit and its swarming shadows that no one responds to
the madman's saying.
Willing or unwilling, since we cannot go back, we must even take
that way.
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