They who were down there at the end would not budge,
and their inactivity immobilized the rest. Some wounded passed over
the others, crawling over them as over debris, and sprinkling the
whole company with their blood.
We discovered at last the cause of the maddening inactivity of the
detachment's tail--"There's a barrage fire beyond."
A weird imprisoned panic seized upon the men with cries inarticulate
and gestures stillborn. They writhed upon the spot. But little
shelter as the incipient trench afforded, no one dared leave the
ditch that saved us from protruding above the level of the ground,
no one dared fly from death towards the traverse that should be down
there. Great were the risks of the wounded who had managed to crawl
over the others, and every moment some were struck and went down
again.
Fire and water fell blended everywhere. Profoundly entangled in the
supernatural din, we shook from neck to heels. The most hideous of
deaths was falling and bounding and plunging all around us in waves
of light, its crashing snatched our fearfulness in all
directions--our flesh prepared itself for the monstrous sacrifice!
In that tense moment of imminent destruction, we could only remember
just then how often we had already experienced it, how often
undergone this outpouring of iron, and the burning roar of it, and
the stench. It is only during a bombardment that one really recalls
those he has already endured.
And still, without ceasing, newly-wounded men crept over us, fleeing
at any price.
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