It seemed that the walls of the
trenches had been built out of corpses, for one recognised the
uniforms of French men and Huns. They _were_ built out of them, though
whether by design or accident it was impossible to tell. We came to a
group of men, doing some repairing; that part of the trench had
evidently been strafed last night. They didn't know where they were,
or how far it was to the front-line. We wandered on, still laying in
our wire. The Colonel of our Brigade joined us and we waded on
together.
The enemy shelling was growing more intense, as was always the way on
the Somme when we were bringing out our wounded. A good many of our
trenches were directly enfilade; shells burst just behind the parapet,
when they didn't burst on it. It was at about this point in my
breaking-in that I received a blow on the head--and thanked God for
the man who invented the steel helmet.
Things were getting distinctly curious. We hadn't passed any infantry
for some time. The trenches were becoming each minute more shallow and
neglected. Suddenly we found ourselves in a narrow furrow which was
packed with our own dead. They had been there for some time and were
partly buried. They were sitting up or lying forward in every attitude
of agony. Some of them clasped their wounds; some of them pointed
with their hands. Their faces had changed to every colour and glared
at us like swollen bruises. Their helmets were off; with a pitiful,
derisive neatness the rain had parted their hair.
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