* * * * * *
We are lost again, and this time we must be close to the first
lines; but a depression in this part of the plain forms a sort of
basin, overrun by shadows. We have marched along a sap and then back
again. In the phosphorescent vibration of the guns, shimmering like
a cinematograph, we make out above the parapet two stretcher-bearers
trying to cross the trench with their laden stretcher.
The lieutenant, who at least knows the place where he should guide
the team of workers, questions them, "Where is the New
Trench?"--"Don't know." From the ranks another question is put to
them, "How far are we from the Boches?" They make no reply, as they
are talking among themselves.
"I'm stopping," says the man in front; "I'm too tired."
"Come, get on with you, nom de Dieu!" says the other in a surly tone
and floundering heavily, his arms extended by the stretcher. "We
can't step and rust here."
They put the stretcher down on the parapet, the edge of it
overhanging the trench, and as we pass underneath we can see the
prostrate man's feet. The rain which falls on the stretcher drains
from it darkened.
"Wounded?" some one asks down below.
"No, a stiff," growls the bearer this time, "and he weighs twelve
stone at least. Wounded I don't mind--for two days and two nights we
haven't left off carrying 'em--but it's rotten, breaking yourself up
with lugging dead men about." And the bearer, upright on the edge of
the bank, drops a foot to the base of the opposite bank across the
cavity, and with his legs wide apart, laboriously balanced, he grips
the stretcher and begins to draw it across, calling on his companion
to help him.
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