its light we see, a few steps in front of us, a gaping trench. We
were going to fall into it. It is motionless and empty--no, it is
occupied--yes, it is empty. It is full of a file of slain watchers.
The row of men was no doubt starting out of the earth when the shell
burst in their faces; and by the poised white rays we see that the
blast has staved them in, has taken away the flesh; and above the level
of the monstrous battlefield there is left of them only some fearfully
distorted heads. One is broken and blurred; one emerges like a peak, a
good half of it fallen into nothing. At the end of the row, the
ravages have been less, and only the eyes are smitten. The hollow
orbits in those marble heads look outwards with dried darkness. The
deep and obscure face-wounds have the look of caverns and funnels, of
the shadows in the moon; and stars of mud are clapped on the faces in
the place where eyes once shone.

Our strides have passed that trench. We go more quickly and trouble no
more now about the star-shells, which, among us who know nothing, say,
"I know" and "I will." All is changed, all habits and laws. We march
exposed, upright, through the open fields. Then I suddenly understand
what they have hidden from us up to the last moment--we are attacking!

Yes, the counter-attack has begun without our knowing it. I apply
myself to following the others. May I not be killed like the others;
may I be saved like the others! But if I am killed, so much the worse.

I bear myself forward. My eyes are open but I look at nothing;
confused pictures are printed on my staring eyes. The men around me
form strange surges; shouts cross each other or descend. Upon the
fantastic walls of nights the shots make flicks and flashes. Earth and
sky are crowded with apparitions; and the golden lace of burning stakes
is unfolding.

A man is in front of me, a man whose head is wrapped in linen.

He is coming from the opposite direction. He is coming from the other
country! He was seeking me, and I was seeking him. He is quite
near--suddenly he is upon me.

The fear that he is killing me or escaping me--I do not know
which--makes me throw out a desperate effort. Opening my hands and
letting the rifle go, I seize him. My fingers are buried in his
shoulder, in his neck, and I find again, with overflowing exultation,
the eternal form of the human frame. I hold him by the neck with all
my strength, and with more than all