The soldiers were now at work in the lower passage. Carts began to
arrive. An officer told off to this dread duty came up hurriedly
smoking a cigarette, his high fur collar about his ears. He glanced
at Louis, and bowed to him.
"Looking for some one?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Then stand here beside me. It is I who have to keep count. They
say there are eight thousand in here. They will be carried past
here to the carts. Have a cigarette."
It is hard to talk when the thermometer registers more than twenty
degrees of frost, for the lips stiffen and contract into wrinkles
like the lips of a very old woman. Perhaps neither of the watchers
was in the humour to begin an acquaintance.
They stood side by side, stamping their feet to keep the blood
going, without speaking. Once or twice Louis stepped forward, and
at a signal from the officer the bearers stopped. But Louis shook
his head, and they passed on. At midday the officer was relieved,
his place being taken by another, who bowed stiffly to Louis and
took no more notice of him. For war either hardens or softens. It
never leaves a man as it found him.
All day the work was carried on. Through the hours this procession
of the bearded dead went silently by. At the invitation of a
sergeant, Louis took some soup and bread from the soldiers' table.
The men laughingly apologized for the quality of both.
Towards evening the officer who had first come on duty returned to
his work.
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