That afternoon I slept for the first time. One moment I had been moving around, giving orders for the storing of our kit, and the next—I must have dropped suddenly like a drunken man, for when I came to, it was late afternoon, and my orderly told me I had slept fourteen hours without moving. I remember nothing of the last four days, except,—except that letter. Yet I have been, to all intents and purposes, a rational man, moving and speaking instinctively, meeting and answering my fellow officers,—and all is a blur. I remember no more than a swimming sensation of being buffeted in contending floods of humanity; of hearing motor lorries roaring endlessly in my ears; of being thundered over, shrieked over; of being borne along on the flotsam and jetsam of human tides, with dimly remembered half-lights; of a child’s running to a dressing station, holding a broken jaw together; of a dog to whom I fed a crust; of an old woman, with red stockings, riding on an army kitchen, and I think I must have broken into a laugh!
* * * * *
Still we are in the back wash of refugees, old men, women, cattle, wounded poilus straggling to the rear, torn regiments returning. They pass us like apparitions, eyes set and sullen. Only occasionally a cry from the ranks, a cry of old age or defiant youth, but the rest, the muddied human flood, rolls by, grim and inert. Fatalism! In our ranks a great deal of grumbling, but we know what that grumbling is worth. The aspect of the fields is hideous. The only thing which rouses our resentment is the passing to and fro of Boche aeroplanes and the sudden spurts of flame beneath them as they pass. We hate them, with a blind, unreasoning hatred, as the tiger must hate the weapon that slays it from a safe distance. For the rest, indifference.
* * * * *
The attack seems stemmed. We are in the second line, ready to relieve the ——th Division when our turn comes. Our aeroplanes have swarmed in, and everywhere there are strange falcon-like encounters, under the clouds and above them. To-day, as I was seeking General La Pierre’s headquarters, Maurice de Saint Omer hailed me around a jutting wall.
“Eh, l’Americain! David, mon bon vieux! Still alive?”
I shrank from him; why, I don’t know. But the touch of his hand hurt me.
“Mais, qu’est-ce que tu as, mon vieux. Tu es blessé?”
“No—sleep!”
“Turn in here. We have a cellar as luxurious as the Ritz. Lunched?”