The lower extremities, in their grayish leggings
remained on the ground, inanimate as reddening, empty moulds. The
trunk, in its violent ascent, spread its contents abroad like a bursting
rocket. Further on, some gunners, standing upright, were suddenly
stretched full length, converted into a motionless row, bathed in blood.
The line of infantry was lying close to the ground. The men had huddled
themselves together near the loopholes through which they aimed their
guns, trying to make themselves less visible. Many had placed their
knapsacks over their heads or at their backs to defend themselves from
the flying bits of shell. If they moved at all, it was only to worm
their way further into the earth, trying to hollow it out with their
stomachs. Many of them had changed position with mysterious rapidity,
now lying stretched on their backs as though asleep. One had his uniform
torn open across the abdomen, showing between the rents of the cloth,
slabs of flesh, blue and red that protruded and swelled up with a
bubbling expansion. Another had his legs shot away, and was looking
around with surprised eyes and a black mouth rounded into an effort to
howl, but from which no sound ever came.
Desnoyers had lost all notion of time. He could not tell whether he had
been rooted to that spot for many hours or for a single moment.
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