After every shovelful the blade must be scraped.
Already a thin heap of earth is winding along, and each man has the
idea of reinforcing the incipient breastwork with his pouch and his
rolled-up greatcoat, and he hoods himself behind the slender pile of
shadow when a volley comes--
While we work we sweat, and as soon as we stop working we are
pierced through by the cold. A spell seems to be cast on us,
paralyzing our arms. The rockets torment and pursue us, and allow us
but little movement. After every one of them that petrifles us with
its light we have to struggle against a task still more stubborn.
The hole only deepens into the darkness with painful and despairing
tardiness.
The ground gets softer; each shovelful drips and flows, and spreads
from the blade with a flabby sound. At last some one cries, "Water!"
The repeated cry travels all along the row of
diggers--"Water--that's done it!"
"Melusson's team's dug deeper, and there's water. They've
struck a swamp."--"No help for it."
We stop in confusion. In the bosom of the night we hear the sound of
shovels and picks thrown down like empty weapons. The non-coms. go
gropingly after the officer to get instructions. Here and there,
with no desire for anything better, some men are going deliciously
to sleep under the caress of the rain, under the radiant rockets.
* * * * * *
It was very nearly at this minute, as far as I can remember, that
the bombardment began again.
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