VI—"I LOOK DOWN ON THE TERRIBLE LANDSCAPE"
I walk on, if one call it walking, this wearisome and inexorable process of plunging through the mud. And finally I arrive at the little grove of trees where we are to meet. I am glad of it, for my helmet and cloak had become a heavy burden under this unexpectedly burning sun. It happens that I am the first to arrive; the officer whom I have summoned—to discuss new defense works, new lines of stake nets, new burrows—is without doubt that blue outline making its way hither, but he is still distant, and I have still a few moments to continue my meditation of the way hither before it is time to become once more concentrated and exact. It is clear that the place is not left entirely alone, for these poor, half-stripped branches offer no more resistance than mere sheets of paper to the huge humming beetles that pass through them from time to time; but all the same a little wood like this keeps you company, shuts you in, spreads something of illusion about you.
I am on a bit of rising ground, from which I look down on all the terrible landscape, the succession of monotonous hillocks zebra-streaked by whitish "guts," and the few trees disheveled by shrapnel bullets. In the further distances these intertwined wires, stretched in all directions, sparkle in the sun, somewhat like "the Virgin's threads," which spread over the meadows in Spring. And on all sides the detonations of artillery keep up their accustomed rumble, which goes on unceasingly here, night and day, like the roar of the ocean against the cliffs.
Ah! the huge bird has found some one to speak to in the air! I see it all at once assailed by a host of those little tufts of white cotton—bursting shrapnel—which look so innocent, but which are so perilous for birds of its breed. It turns about hastily; its crimes are put off for another time.
From behind a nearby rising ground come forth a group of men in blue, who will reach me before the officer who is coming over there. It is the chance one, the one among thousands of these little processions which one meets incessantly, alas! along the battle front, and which form, so to speak, part of the stage setting. At its head four soldiers are carrying a stretcher, and others are following, to relieve them. Attracted also by the illusory protection of the branches, they stop instinctively at the entrance of the little wood to take breath and change shoulders. They come from the first-line trenches, which are three or four kilometers away, and are carrying a "gravely wounded" man to an underground hospital, which is some quarter of an hour away. They also had not foreseen this vicious sun that scorches one's head; they are wearing their helmets and cloaks, and they feel the weight of them as much as that of the precious load which they take such pains to carry steadily; more, they drag along, on each foot, a thick shell of sticky mud which gives them feet like elephants, and the sweat runs in big drops over their fine, tired faces.
"What is the matter with your wounded man?" I ask in a low voice.
In still lower voices they answer me: "He is ripped up the belly—oh! the trench surgeon told us that...." They finish the sentence only with a shake of the head, but I understand. For the rest, he has not stirred. His poor hand remains pressed to his brow and his eyes, doubtless to protect them against the baking sun, and I ask: "Why did you not cover his face?" "We did put a handkerchief over it, Colonel, but he took it away; he said he would rather have it like that, so that he can still see something between his fingers."