At
times the trench was filled with the acid stench of explosives mixed
with fine lime flung from the fallen masonry with which the place was
littered. This caused every man to cough, almost choking as the throat
tried to rid itself of the foreign substance. One or two fainted and
recovered only after douches of cold water on the face and chest.
The suspense wore us down; we breathed the suffocating fumes of one
explosion and waited, our senses tensely strung for the coming of the
next shell. The sang-froid which carried us through many a tight
corner with credit utterly deserted us, we were washed-out things;
with noses to the cold earth, like rats in a trap we waited for the
next moment which might land us into eternity. The excitement of a
bayonet charge, the mad tussle with death on the blood-stained field,
which for some reason is called the field of honour was denied us; we
had to wait and lie in the trench, which looked so like a grave, and
sink slowly into the depths of depression.
Everything seemed so monstrously futile, so unfinished, so (p. 197)
useless. Would the dawn see us alive or dead? What did it matter? All
that we desired was that this were past, that something, no matter
what, came and relieved us of our position. All my fine safeguards
against terrible wounds were neglected. What did it matter where a
shell hit me now, a weak useless thing at the bottom of a trench? Let
it come, blow me to atoms, tear me to pieces, what did I care? I felt
like one in a horrible nightmare; unable to help myself.
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