"There we are, all of us, crouching with bent back--_Crack!_ Once more
an obus. The shrapnel, which try to stop us at our job, drive us out;
but the things that bore us still more--_Crack!_--are just those obus."
With each "_Crack!_ Il tombe des obus," the big bass-drum boomed like
the shell he sang of. His voice was as tense and metallic as a taut
string, and he snapped out the lilting line in swift staccato as if he
were flaying his audience with a whip. Man after man on the hillside
took up the irresistible rhythm in an undertone, and "Cracked" with the
singer. In front of me was being created a folk-song. The bitterness
and glory of their life were being told to them, and they were hearing
the singer gladly. Their leader was lifting the dreary trench night and
death itself into a surmounting and joyous thing.
"When you've made your entrenchment, then you must go and guard it
without preliminaries. All right; go ahead. But just as you're moving,
you have to squat down for a day and a night--yes, for a full
twenty-four hours--because things are hot. Somebody gives you half a
drop of coffee. Thirst torments you. The powder-fumes choke you."
Here and there in the crowd, listening intently, men were stirring. The
lad was speaking to the exact intimate detail of their experience. This
was the life they knew. What would he make of it?
"Despite our sufferings, we cherish the hope some day of returning and
finding our parents, our wives, and our little ones.
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