The aviator, as upright as he can get and with his neck on the ceiling, waves his arms and appeals to God, asks Him what He is called, what is His real name.  Overthrown by the blast and cast upon the others, I see him who, bare of breast and his clothes gaping like a wound, reveals the heart of a Christ.  The greatcoat of the man who still monotonously repeats, “What’s the use of worrying?” now shows itself all green, bright green, the effect of the picric acid no doubt released by the explosion that has staggered his brain.  Others—­the rest, indeed—­helpless and maimed, move and creep and cringe, worm themselves into the corners.  They are like moles. poor, defenseless beasts, hunted by the hellish hounds of the guns.

The bombardment slackens, and ends in a cloud of smoke that still echoes the crashes, in a quivering and burning after-damp.  I pass out through the breach; and still surrounded and entwined in the clamor of despair, I arrive under the free sky, in the soft earth where mingled planks and legs are sunk.  I catch myself on some wreckage; it is the embankment of the trench.  At the moment when I plunge into the communication trenches they are visible a long way; they are still gloomily stirring, still filled by the crowd that overflows from the trenches and flows without end towards the refuges.  For whole days, for whole nights, you will see the long rolling streams of men plucked from the fields of battle, from the plain over there that also has feelings of its own, though it bleeds and rots without end.

22

Going About

We have been along the Boulevard de la Republique and then the Avenue Gambetta, and now we are debouching into the Place du Commerce.  The nails in our polished boots ring on the pavements of the capital.  It is fine weather, and the shining sky glistens and flashes as if we saw it through the frames of a greenhouse; it sets a-sparkle all the shop-fronts in the square.  The skirts of our well-brushed greatcoats have been let down, and as they are usually fastened back, you can see two squares on the floating lappets where the cloth is bluer.

Our sauntering party halts and hesitates for a moment in front of the Cafe de la Sous-Prefecture, also called the Grand-Cafe.

“We have the right to go in!” says Volpatte.

“Too many officers in there,” replies Blaire, who has lifted his chin over the guipure curtains in which the establishment is dressed up and risked a glance through the window between its golden letters.

“Besides,” says Paradis, “we haven’t seen enough yet.”

We resume our walk and, simple soldiers that we are, we survey the sumptuous shops that encircle the Place du Commerce; the drapers, the stationers, the chemists, and—­like a General’s decorated uniform—­the display of the jeweler.  We have put forth our smiles like ornaments, for we are exempt from all duty until the evening, we are free, we are masters of our own time.  Our steps are gentle and sedate; our empty and swinging hands are also promenading, to and fro.