The natives had gone away and soldiers were
billeted in their places. Marching had made us hot; we perspired
freely and the sweat ran down our arms and legs; it trickled down our
temples and dropped from our eyebrows to our cheeks.
"Hang on to the step! Quick march! As you were! About turn!" some one
shouted imitating our sergeant-major's voice. We had marched in
comparative silence up to now, but the mimicked order was like a match
applied to a powder magazine. We had had eighteen days in the trenches,
we were worn down, very weary and very sick of it all; now we were out
and would be out for some days; we were glad, madly glad. All began to
make noises at the same time, to sing, to shout, to yell; in the night,
on the road with its lines of poplars we became madly delirious, we
broke free like a confused torrent from a broken dam. Everybody (p. 213)
had something to say or sing, senseless chatter and sentimental songs
ran riot; all uttered something for the mere pleasure of utterance; we
were out of the trenches and free for the time being from danger.
Stoner marched on my right, hanging on his knees a little, singing a
music hall song and smoking. A little flutter of ash fell from his
cigarette, which seemed to be stuck to his lower lip as it rose and
fell with the notes of the song. When he came to the chorus he looked
round as if defying somebody, then raised his right hand over his head
and gripping his rifle, held the weapon there until the last word of
the chorus trembled on his lips; then he brought it down with the last
word and looked round as if to see that everybody was admiring his
action.
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