“Say, wait a minute. Stop that. We’ve got to git his dog-tag off.”
Lepere stooped over the body and fumbled at the dirty collar. “Gimme a knife.” He snipped one of the identification disks from the greasy string. Stuffing it in his pocket, he drew back and ordered: “Now go ahead.”
The business was continued silently. Bodies were carried to the clearing marked off for the temporary burial-place, rolled in a blanket, and dropped into shallow holes. Before they were dumped into their temporary graves their pockets were searched and the contents placed in little piles on the ground. Some of the bodies were unrecognizable, although the men at work had seen them and talked with them the day before. One or two of the bodies looked as if life had fled them peacefully. The uniforms were unspotted with blood, the faces were calm. But some of the faces were distorted. The lips rose from the teeth and made them look like fangs. One body, on which the skin looked like liver, had been struck lifeless a few days earlier. It stunk terrifically, and when Lepere’s hands sought out the neck for the identification tag, his fingers sank into the flesh. But he went stolidly on about his work. Hicks turned his body and engaged in a paroxysm of gagging. He turned again, his face the color of a piece of paper. The work went on.
The late afternoon sun shone upon a group of mounds of fresh-dug dirt. Each mound was marked by two rough sticks, made to form a cross, at the juncture of which a small aluminum disk bearing a number was fastened. A few yards away men were eating cold beef, cold boiled potatoes, and drinking lukewarm coffee from their muddy canteen cups.
The sky was clear and the air was like a bell. It could have been fancied that any noise must be a tinkling one. The tree tops were tall Gothic spires that reached to the heavens. The man in the moon was distinct in the round, pale ball that threw silvery sheets into the forest.
The platoon believed that it had embarked upon a night that at last was to be silent, harmless. They tried to stretch their muscles, which had been taut for days; their thoughts sought out other and more pleasant scenes of remembrance. The air was crisp and their bodies felt comfortable under their blankets. Their heads, pillowed on their gas-masks, were, for once, inert. Fear had flown.
The first shell that whined its course from the German lines to the place where they were asleep passed unnoticed. It struck the ground with a “P-tt.” The next one did likewise, but some one awakened. He touched the man lying near to him. “What was that?” he asked fearfully, wanting to be assured. Another shell, sounding like a full bottle that is shaken, dropped several yards away.
“Oh, hell,” said the aroused man. “The Squareheads are out of ammunition. They’re shootin’ beer-bottles over.” He fell asleep, unconcerned. The first man sniffed. “Beer-bottles! I guess not. GAS!” he screamed, in a panic. Grunting, swearing, frightened, the men got their masks over their faces in less time than they had been trained to. Now they sat around tense, their minds blank, the saliva running down their chins from the mouthpiece of the mask.