They were projectiles.
"If a German shell," he thought, "should explode above this burrow . . .
what a frightful blowing up!" . . .
But he calmed himself by reflecting on the solidity of the arched vault
with its beams and sacks of earth several yards thick. Suddenly he
was in absolute darkness. Another had sought refuge in the shelter,
obstructing the light with his body; perhaps his friend Desnoyers.
A year passed by while his watch was registering a single second, then
a century at the same rate . . . and finally the awaited thunder burst
forth, making the refuge vibrate, but with a kind of dull elasticity,
as though it were made of rubber. In spite of its thud, the explosion
wrought horrible damage. Other minor explosions, playful and whistling,
followed behind the first. In his imagination, Lacour saw the
cataclysm--a writhing serpent, vomiting sparks and smoke, a species of
Wagnerian monster that upon striking the ground was disgorging thousands
of fiery little snakes, that were covering the earth with their deadly
contortions. . . . The shell must have burst nearby, perhaps in the very
square occupied by this battery.
He came out of the shelter, expecting to encounter a sickening display
of dismembered bodies, and he saw his son smiling, smoking a cigar and
talking with Desnoyers. . . . That was a mere nothing! The gunners were
tranquilly finishing the charging of a huge piece.
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