But the sound of it gave a gentle tingle to the act of
eating. There was occasional rifle fire, the bullet singing close.
"They're improving," said the Commandant, "a fellow reached over the
trench this morning for his Billy-can, and they got him in the hand."
Two Marins cleared away the plank on which bread and coffee and tinned
meat had been served.
The hot August sun cooked the loose earth, and heightened the smells of
food. A swarm of flies poured over the outer rim and dropped down on
squatting men and the scattered commissariat. Watts was sitting at a
little distance from the group. He closed his eyes, but soon began
striking methodically at the settling flies. He fought them with the
right arm and the left in long heavy strokes, patiently, without
enthusiasm. The soldiers brought out a pack of cards, and leaned forward
for the deal. Suddenly Watts rose, lifted his arms above the trench, and
deliberately stretched. Three faint cracks sounded from across the
hillock, and he tumbled out at full length, as if some one had flung him
away. The men hastened to him, coming crouched over but swiftly.
"Got him in the right arm," said the Commandant.
"Thank God," muttered Watts, sleepily.
* * * * *
It was the Convent Hospital of Furnes. There was quiet in the ward of
twenty-five beds, where side by side slept the wounded of France and
Germany and Belgium and England.
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