The breeze catches the telephone wires
which run from the artillery at rear to their observation stations,
and the wires sing like light shells travelling through space.
At dawn you waken to the sound of anti-aircraft guns firing at
aeroplanes which they never bring down. The bullets, falling back from
exploding shells, swish to the earth with a sound like burning (p. 305)
magnesium wires and split a tile if any is left, or crack a skull, if
any is in the way, with the neatest dispatch. It is wise to remain in
shelter until the row is over.
Outside, the birds are merry on the roofs; you can hear them sing
defiantly at the lone cat that watches them from the grassy spot which
was once a street. Spiders' webs hang over the doorways, many flies
have come to an untimely end in the glistening snares, poor little
black, helpless things. Here and there lies a broken crucifix and a
torn picture of the Holy Family, the shrines that once stood at the
street corners are shapeless heaps of dust and weeds and the village
church is in ruins.
No man is allowed to walk in the open by day; a German observation
balloon, a big banana of a thing, with ends pointing downwards stands
high over the earth ten kilometres away and sees all that takes place
in the streets.
There is a soldiers' cemetery to rear of the last block of buildings
where the dead have been shovelled out of earth by shell fire. In this
village the dead are out in the open whilst the quick are underground.
Pages:
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223