211)
"That's so. Why do you say it?"
"I don't know."
"I suppose because it's more motherly."
"That may be," said Stoner and laughed.
Quick march! The moon came out, ghostly, in a cloudy sky; a light,
pale as water, slid over the shoulders of the men in front and rippled
down the creases of their trousers. The bayonets wobbled wearily on
the hips, those bayonets that once, burnished as we knew how to
burnish them, were the glory and delight of many a long and strict
general inspection at St. Albans; they were now coated with mud and
thick with rust, a disgrace to the battalion!
When the last stray bullet ceased whistling over our heads, and we
were well beyond the range of rifle fire, leave to smoke was granted.
To most of us it meant permission to smoke openly. Cigarettes had been
burned for quite a quarter of an hour before and we had raised them at
intervals to our lips, concealing the glow of their lighted ends under
our curved fingers. We drew the smoke in swiftly, treasured it
lovingly in our mouths for some time then exhaled it slowly and
grudgingly.
The sky cleared a little, but at times drifts of grey cloud swept (p. 212)
over the moon and blotted out the stars. On either side of the road
lone poplars stood up like silent sentinels, immovable, and the soft
warm breeze that touched us like a breath shook none of their branches.
Here and there lime-washed cottages, roofed with patches of straw
where the enemy's shells had dislodged the terra-cotta tiles, showed
lights in the windows.
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