087)
innumerable tricks with cards, and gambles and never wins. Why were we
here holding a line of trench, and ready to take a life or give one as
occasion required? Who shall give an answer to the question?
CHAPTER VII (p. 088)
BLOOD AND IRON--AND DEATH
At night the stars are shining bright,
The old-world voice is whispering near,
We've heard it when the moon was light,
And London's streets were verydear;
But dearer now they are, sweetheart,
The 'buses running to the Strand,
But we're so far, so far apart,
Each lonely in a different land.
The night was murky and the air was splashed with rain. Following the
line of trench I could dimly discern the figures of my mates pulling
off their packs and fixing their bayonets. These glittered brightly as
the dying fires from the trench braziers caught them, and the long
array of polished blades shone into their place along the dark brown
sandbags. Looking over the parados I could see the country in rear,
dim in the hazy night. A white, nebulous fog lay on the ground and
enveloped the lone trees that stood up behind. Here and there I could
discern houses where no light shone, and where no people dwelt. All
the inhabitants were gone, and in the village away to the right (p. 089)
there was absolute silence, the stillness of the desert. To my mind
came words I once read or heard spoken, "The conqueror turns the
country into a desert, and calls it peace.
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