Indianapolis Times, Volume 41, Number 95, Indianapolis, Marion County, 30 August 1929 — Page 18

PAGE 18

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CHAPTER VII (Continued) Then again only the rockets, the singing of the shells, and the stars —and they shine out wonderfully. Detering walks up and down cursing: “Like to know what harm they’ve done." He returns to it once again. His voice is agitated, it sounds almost dignified as he says: “I tell you it is the vilest baseness to use horses in the war.” an tt We go back. It fc time we returned to the lorries. The sky is become a bit brighter. Three o'clock in the morning. The breeze is fresh and cool, the pale hour makes our faces look gray. We trudge onward in single file through the trenches and shellholes and come again to the zone of mist. Kazczinsky is restive, that's a b ml sign. “What's up, Kat?” says Kropp. “I wish I were back home.” Home —he means the huts. “It won't last much longer, Kat.” He is nervous. “I don’t know, I don’t know—” We come to the communicationtrench and then to the open fields. The little wood reappears; we know every foot of ground here. There’s the cemetery with the mounds and the black crosses. That moment it breaks out behind us, swells, roars, and thunders. We duck down—a cloud of flame shoots up a hundred yards ahead of us. The next minute under a second explosion part of the wood rises slowly in the air. three or four trees sail up and then crash to pieces. | The shells begin to hiss like safelyvalves—heavy fire—- “ Take cover!” yells somebody— i “Cover!” The fields are flat, the wood is too! distant and dangerous—the only cover is thee graveyard and the mounds. We stumble across in the dark and as though spirited away every man lies glued behind a mound. Not a moment too soon. The dark goes mad. ILt heaves and raves. Darkness blacker than the night rush on us with giant strides, over us and away. The flames of the explosions light up the graveyard. There is no escape anywhere. By t.the light of the shells I try to get a view of the fields. They are a surging sea, daggers of flame from the explosions leap up like fountains. It is impossible for any one to break through it. The wood vanishes, it Is pounded,: crushed, torn to pieces. We must stay here .in the graveyard. The earth bursts before us. It rains clods. I feel a smack. My sleeve is torn away by a splinter. I shut my fist. No pain. Still that does not reassure me; wounds don’t hurt till afterward. I feel the arm all over. It is grazed, but sound. Now a crack on

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the skull. I begin to lose consciousi ness. Like lightning the thought comes to me: Don't faint, sink ! down in the black broth and im- ! mediately come to the top again. A splinter slashes into my helmet, ; but has traveled so far that it does not go through. I wipe the mud out ;of my eyes. A hole is torn up tn front of me. Shells hardly ever ’and in the same hole twice. I'll get into It. With one bound I fling myself down and lie on the earth as flat as a fish: there it whistles again, quickly I crouch together, claw for I cover, feel something on the left, i shove in beside it, it gives way. I ; groan, the earth leaps, the blast | thunders in my ears. I creep under the yielding thing, ! cover myself with it, draw’ it over ! me, it is wood, cloth, cover, cover, | miserable cover against the whizzing I splinters. I open my eyes—my fingers grasp ! a sleeve, an arm. A wounded man? II yell to him —no answer—a dead i 1 nan. My hand gropes farther, splin- ! ters of w’ood—now I remember ! again that we are lying in the j graveyard. j But the shelling is stronger than I everything. It wipes out the sens!- | bilities, I merely crawl still deeper ' into the coffin, it should protect me. i and especially as Deaht himself lies [ in it, too. Before me gapes the shell-hole. 1 grasp it with my eyes as with fists. With one leap I must be in it. There, I get a smack in the face, a hand clamps on my shoulder — has the dead man waked up?—The hand shakes me, I turn my head, in the second of light I stare into s he face of Katczinsky, he has his mouth wide open and is yelling. I hear nothing, he rattles me, comes nearer, in a momentary lull his voice reaches me: “Gas —Gas—Gases — Pass it on.” CHAPTER VIII I GRAB for my gas mask. Some distance from me there lies someone. I think of nothing but this: That fellow there must know: Gaas—Gaas — , I call. T lean toward him, I swipe at him with the satchel, he doesn't see—once again, again—he merely ducks —it's a recruit—l look at Kat desperately, he has his mask ready —I pull out mine, too; my helmet falls to one side, it slips over xry face. I reach the man, his satchel Is on the side nearest me, I seize the mask, pull it over his head, he understands, I let go and with a jump drop back into the shell hole. The dull thud of the gas shells mingles with the crashes of the high explosives. A bell sounds between the explosions, gongs and metal clappers warning everyone— Gas —Gas—Gaas. Someone plumps down behind

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me, another. I wipe the goggles of my mask clear of the moist breath. It is Kat, Kropp and someone else. Ail four of us lie there in heavy, watchful suspense and breathe as lightly as possible. These first minutes with the mask decide between life and death: is it ■ tightly woven? I remember the aw- | ful sights in the hospital; the gas oatients who in day-long suffocation cough their burnt lungs up in j clots. , ; Cautiously, the mouth applied to | the valve, I breathe. The gas still | creeps over the ground and sinks into all hollow’s. Like a big, soft jellyfish it floats into our shell-hole and lolls there obscenely.

I nudge Kat. It is better to craw’l out and lie on top than to stay here where the gas collects most. But we don’t get as far as that; a second bombardment begins. It is no longer as though the shells roared; it is the earth Itself raging. With a crash something black j bears dowm on us. It lands close beside us; a coffin throwrn up. I see Kat move and I craw’l across. The coffin has hit the fourth man in our hole on his outstretched arm. He tries to tear off his gasmask with the other hand. Kropp seizes, him just in time, twists the hand sharply behind his back and | holds it fast. Kat and I proceed to free the wounded arm. The coffin lid is loose and bursts open, we toss the corpse out, it slides down to the bottom of the shell-hole, then we try to loosen the under part. Fortunately the man swoons and Kropp is able to help us. We no longer have to be careful, but work aw’ay till the coffin gives with a sigh for the spade that we have dug in under it. It has grown lighter. Kat takes a piece of the lid, places it under the shattered arm, and wre w’rap all our bandages round it. For the moment we can do no more. Inside the gas mask my head booms and roars—it is nigh burst- j ing. My lungs are tight, they breathe ! always the same hot, used-up air, i the veins on my temple are swollen,' I feel I am suffocating. A gray light filters through to us. I climb out over the edge of the shell hole. In the dirty twilight lies a leg torn clean off, the boot is quite whole. I take that all in at a glance. Now someone stands up a few yard distant. I polish the windows, in my excitement they are immediately dimmed again. I peer through them, the man no longer wears his mask. I w’ait some seconds—he has not collapsed—he looks around and makes a few paces—rattling in my j throat I tear my mask off, too, and ] fall down, the air streams into me j like cold w’ater, my eyes are burst- j ing, the w’ave sweeps over me and | extinguishes me. tt u tt The shelling has ceased. I drag myself to the crater and tell the others. They take off their masks. We lift up the wounded mart; one taking his -splintered arm. And so we stumble off hastily. The graveyard is a mass of w’reckage. Coffins and corpses lie strewn about. They have been killed once again; but each of them that was flung up saved one of us. The hedge is destroyed, the rails of the light railway are torn up and rise stiffly in the air in great arches. Someone lies in front of us. We stop; Kropp goes on alone with the wounded man. The man on the ground is a recruit. His hip is covered with blood; he is so exhausted that I feel for my water bottle, where I have rum and tea. Kat restrains my hand and stoops over him. “Where’s it got you, comrade?” His eyes move. He is too weak to answer. We cut off his trousers carefully.

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iHe groans. ‘Gently, gently, it is j much better—” If he has been hit in the stomach Ihe oughtn't to drink anything. , There’s no vomiting, that’s a good | sign. We lay the hip bare. It is j one mass of mincemeat and bone j splinters. The joint has been hit. | This lad won't walk any more. | I wet his temples with a moisti ened finger and give him a swig. His eyes move again. We see now that the right arm is bleeding as well. Kat spreads out two wads of dressing as wide as possible so that they will cover the wound. I look for something to bind loosely round it. We have nothing more, so I slit up the wounded man’s trouser leg still farther in order to use a piece of his underpants as a bandage. But he is wearing none. I now look at him closely. He is the fair-headed boy of a little while ago, In the meantime Kat has taken a bandage from a dead man’s pocket and we carefully bind the wound. I say to the youngster who looks at us fixedly: “We’re going for a stretcher now—” Then he opens his mouth and whispers: “Stay here—” “We’ll be back again soon,” says Kat, “We are only going to get a stretcher for you.” We don’t know if he understands. He whimpers like a child and plucks at uS: “Don’t go away—” Kat looks around and whispers: “Shouldn’t we just take a revolver and put an end to it?” The youngster will hardly survive the carrying, and at the most he will only last a few days. What he has gone through so far is nothing to what he’s in for till he dies. Now he is numb and feels nothing. In an hour he will become one screaming bundle of intolerable’

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pain. Every day that he can live will be a howling torture. And to whom does it matter whether he has them or not— I nod. “Yes, Kat, we ought to put him out of his memory.” He stands still a moment. He has made up his mind. We look round —but we are no longer alone. A little group is gathering, from the shell holes and trenches appear heads. We get a stretcher. Kat shakes his head. “Such a kid ” He repeats it: “Young innocents ” bob Our losses are less than was to be expected—five killed and eight wounded. It was in fact quite a short bombardment. Two of our dead lie in the upturned graves. We had merely to throw the earth in on them. We go back. We trot off silently in single file one behind the other. The wounded are taken to the dressing station. The morning is cloudy. The bearers make a fuss about numbers and tickets, the wounded whimper, it begins to rain. An hour later we reach our lorries and climb in. There is more room now than there was. The rain becomes heavier. We take out waterproof sheets and spread them over our heads. The rain rattles down, and flows off at the sides in streams., The lorries bump through the holes, and we rock to and fro in a half-sleep. Two men in the front of the lorry have long forked poles. They watch for telephone wires which hang crosswise over the road so densely that they easily might pull our heads off. The two fellows take them at the right moment on their poles and lift them over behind us. We hear

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their call “Mind—wire—,” dip the ■ knee in a half-sleep and straighten ! up again. Monotonously the lorries sway, j monotonously come the calls, mono- i tonously falls the rain. It falls on ! our heads and on the heads of the j dead up in the line, on the body ofj the Jittle recruit with the wound j that is so much too big for his hip; j it falls on grave; it j falls in our hearts. An explosion sounds somewhere.; We wince, our eyes become tense, our hands are ready to vault over j the side of the lorry into the ditch 1 by the road. It goes no farther only the monotonous cry: “Mind—wire,” — our knees bend—we are again half asleep. CHAPTER IX KILLING each separate louse is a tedious business when a man has hundreds. The little beasts are hard and the everlasting cracking with one’s finger-nails very soon becomes wearisome. So Tjaden has rigged up the lid of a boot-polish tin with a piece of wire over the lighted stump of a candle. The lice are simply thrown

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into this little pan. Crack! and they're done for. We sit around with our shirts on our knees, our bodies naked to the warm air and our hands at work. Haie has a particularly fine brand of louse: they have a red cross on their heads. He suggests that he brought them back with him from the hospital at Thourhout, where they attended personally on a surgeon-general. He says he means to use the fat that slowly accumulates in the tinlid for polishing his boots, and roars with laughter for half an hour at his own joke. But he hasn't must success today; we are too preoccupied with another affair. The rumor has materialized Himmelstoss has come. He appeared yesterday; we've already heard the well-known voice. He seems to have overdone it with a couple of young recruits on the plowed field at home, and unknown to him the son of the local magistrate was watching. That cooked his goose. He will meet some surprises here.

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Tjaden has been meditating for hours what to say to him. Haie gazes thoughtfully at his great paws 1 and winks at me. | The thrashing was the high-water mark of his life. He tells me he | often dreams of it. Kropp and Muller are amusing themselves. From i somewhere or other, probably the ; pioneer cook-house, Kopp has | bagged for himself a mess-tin full of | beans. Muller squints hungrily into it, | but checks himself and says “Al- ! bert. what would you do if it were j suddenly peace time again?" “There won't be any civil life,” ; savs Albert, bluntly. “Well, but if—" persits Muller, j “what would you do?” I “Clear out of this!" growls Kropp. j “Os course. And then what?” “Get. drunk,” says Albert. “Don’t talk rot. I mean seriously—” "So do I." says Kropp. “what else should a man do?” (To Be Continued) ; Copyright 1920 by Little. Brown A Cos., i Distributed hv King Features Syndicate. Inc.

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