"Fathead!" the corporal interrupted; "what's the good of trenches behind, if there's one in front, fathead!"
* * * * * *
"Halt!"
We saw the Divisional Staff go by in the beam of a searchlight. In that valley of night it might have been a procession of princes rising from a subterranean palace. On cuffs and sleeves and collars badges wagged and shone, golden aureoles encircled the heads of this group of apparitions.
The flashing made us start and awoke us forcibly, as it did the night.
The men had been pressed back upon the side of the sunken hollow to clear the way; and they watched, blended with the solidity of the dark. Each great person in his turn pierced the fan of moted sunshine, and each was lighted up for some paces. Hidden and abashed, the shadow-soldiers began to speak in very low voices of those who went by like torches.
They who passed first, guiding the Staff, were the company and battalion officers. We knew them. The quiet comments breathed from the darkness were composed either of praises or curses; these were good and clear-sighted officers; those were triflers or skulkers.
"That's one that's killed some men!"
"That's one I'd be killed for!"
"The infantry officer who really does all he ought," Pélican declared, "well, he get's killed."