In its apparent laziness, in its awful
deliberation, and its quick spasms of wrath, it was more like
the work of waves than of men; and our high platform's gentle
sway and glide was exactly the motion of a ship drifting with
us toward that shore.
"The usual work. Only the usual work," the officer explained.
"Sometimes it is here. Sometimes above or below us. I have
been here since May."
A little sunshine flooded the stricken landscape and made its
chemical yellow look more foul. A detachment of men moved out
on a road which ran toward the French trenches, and then
vanished at the foot of a little rise. Other men appeared
moving toward us with that concentration of purpose and
bearing shown in both Armies when--dinner is at hand. They
looked like people who had been digging hard.
"The same work. Always the same work!" the officer said.
"And you could walk from here to the sea or to Switzerland in
that ditch--and you'll find the same work going on everywhere.
It isn't war."
"It's better than that," said another. "It's the eating-up of
a people. They come and they fill the trenches and they die,
and they die; and they send more and _those_ die. We do the
same, of course, but--look!"
He pointed to the large deliberate smoke-heads renewing
themselves along that yellowed beach.
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