The ease and speed with which the work
begins--like all entrenching work in free soil--foster the illusion
that it will soon be finished, that we shall be able to sleep in the
cavities we have scooped: and thus a certain eagerness revives.
But whether by reason of the noise of the shovels, or because some
men are chatting almost aloud, in spite of reproofs, our activity
wakes up a rocket, whose flaming vertical line rattles suddenly on
our right.
"Lie down!" Every man flattens himself, and the rocket balances and
parades its huge pallor over a sort of field of the dead.
As soon as it is out one hears the men, in places and then all
along, detach themselves from their secretive stillness, get up, and
resume the task with more discretion.
Soon another star-shell tosses aloft its long golden stalk, and
still more brightly illuminates the flat and motionless line of
trenchmakers. Then another and another.
Bullets rend the air around us, and we hear a cry, "Some one
wounded!" He passes, supported by comrades. We can just see the
group of men who are going away, dragging one of their number.
The place becomes unwholesome. We stoop and crouch, and some are
scratching at the earth on their knees. Others are working full
length; they toil, and turn, and turn again, like men in nightmares.
The earth, whose first layer was light to lift, becomes muddy and
sticky; it is hard to handle, and clings to the tool like glue.
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