From our first steps in the Covered Trench, a heavy darkness settles on us and divides us from each other.  The damp odor of a swamped cave steals into us.  In the ceiling of the earthen corridor that contains us, we can make out a few streaks and holes of pallor—­the chinks and rents in the overhead planks.  Little streams of water flow freely through them in places, and in spite of tentative groping we stumble on heaped-up timber.  Alongside, our knocks discover the dim vertical presence of the supporting beams.

The air in this interminable tunnel is vibrating heavily.  It is the searchlight engine that is installed there—­we have to pass in front of it.

After we have felt our deep-drowned way for a quarter of an hour, some one who is overborne by the darkness and the wet, and tired of bumping into unknown people, growls, “I don’t care—­I’m going to light up.”

The brilliant beam of a little electric lamp flashes out, and instantly the sergeant bellows, “Ye gods!  Who’s the complete ass that’s making a light?  Are you daft?  Don’t you know it can be seen, you scab, through the roof?”

The flash-lamp, after revealing some dark and oozing walls in its cone of light, retires into the night.  “Not much you can’t see it!” jeers the man, “and anyway we’re not in the first lines.”  “Ah, that can’t be seen!”

The sergeant, wedged into the file and continuing to advance, appears to be turning round as he goes and attempting some forceful observations—­“You gallows-bird!  You damned dodger!” But suddenly he starts a new roar—­“What!  Another man smoking now!  Holy hell!” This time he tries to halt, but in vain he rears himself against the wall and struggles to stick to it.  He is forced precipitately to go with the stream and is carried away among his own shouts, which return and swallow him up, while the cigarette, the cause of his rage, disappears in silence.

* * * * * *

The jerky beat of the engine grows louder, and an increasing heat surrounds us.  The overcharged air of the trench vibrates more and more as we go forward.  The engine’s jarring note soon hammers our ears and shakes us through.  Still it gets hotter; it is like some great animal breathing in our faces.  The buried trench seems to be leading us down and down into the tumult of some infernal workshop, whose dark-red glow is sketching out our huge and curving shadows in purple on the walls.

In a diabolical crescendo of din, of hot wind and of lights, we flow deafened towards the furnace.  One would think that the engine itself was hurling itself through the tunnel to meet us, like a frantic motor-cyclist drawing dizzily near with his headlight and destruction.

Scorched and half blinded, we pass in front of the red furnace and the black engine, whose flywheel roars like a hurricane, and we have hardly time to make out the movements of men around it.  We shut our eyes, choked by the contact of this glaring white-hot breath.