But a better thing than that took place. One of their own came and
shaped their suffering into song. And together, he and they, they made a
song that is close to the great experience of war. A Belgian, one of the
boy soldiers, came forward to sing to the bearded men. And the song that
he sang was "_La valse des obus_"--"The Dance of the Shells."
"Dear friends, I'm going to sing you some rhymes on the war at the
Yser."
The men to whom he was singing had been holding the Yser for ten months.
"I want you to know that life in the trenches, night by night, isn't
gay."
Two thousand men, unshaved and tousled, with pain in their joints from
those trench nights, were listening.
"As soon as you get there, you must set to work. It doesn't matter
whether it's a black night or a full moon; without making a sound, close
to the enemy, you must fill the sand-bags for the fortifications."
Every man on the hill had been doing just that thing for a year.
Then came his chorus:
"Every time we are in the trenches, _Crack!_ There breaks the shell."
But his French has a verve that no literal translation will give. Let us
take it as he sang it:
"_Crack!_ Il tombe des obus," sang the slight young Belgian, leaning out
toward the two thousand men of many colors, many nations; and soon the
sky in the north was spotted with white clouds of shrapnel-smoke.
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