“O ashes to ashes
An' dust to dust...”
“Can that,” cried Judkins, “it ain't lucky.”
But everybody had taken up the song. Chrisfield noticed that Andrews's eyes were sparkling. “If he ain't the damnedest,” he thought to himself. But he shouted at the top of his lungs with the rest:
“O ashes to ashes
An' dust to dust;
If the gasbombs don't get yer
The eighty-eights must.”
They were climbing the hill again. The road was worn into deep ruts and there were many shell holes, full of muddy water, into which their feet slipped. The woods began, a shattered skeleton of woods, full of old artillery emplacements and dugouts, where torn camouflage fluttered from splintered trees. The ground and the road were littered with tin cans and brass shell-cases. Along both sides of the road the trees were festooned, as with creepers, with strand upon strand of telephone wire.
When next they stopped Chrisfield was on the crest of the hill beside a battery of French seventy-fives. He looked curiously at the Frenchmen, who sat about on logs in their pink and blue shirtsleeves playing cards and smoking. Their gestures irritated him.
“Say, tell 'em we're advancin',” he said to Andrews.
“Are we?” said Andrews. “All right.... Dites-donc, les Boches courent-ils comme des lapins?” he shouted.
One of the men turned his head and laughed.
“He says they've been running that way for four years,” said Andrews. He slipped his pack off, sat down on it, and fished for a cigarette. Chrisfield took off his helmet and rubbed a muddy hand through his hair. He took a bite of chewing tobacco and sat with his hands clasped over his knees.