Thousands of bursting shells, the howls of the whizzing bullets, the
constant nerve-racking crashing and roaring overhead, the deafening
cracking of splitting iron everywhere--that is war. And accompanying it
all the hopeless sensation that this will never, never stop, that it
will go on like this forever, until one's thoughts are dulled by some
terrible, cruel, incomprehensible, demoralizing force. Those bounding
puffs of smoke everywhere on the ground, rifle shots which have been
aimed too short and every one of which-- That abominable sharp singing
as of a swarm of mosquitoes, buzz, buzz, like the buzzing of angry
hornets continually knocking their heads against a window-pane. Bang!
That hit a stone. Bang! two inches nearer, then--"Aim carefully, fire
slowly!" calls the lieutenant in a hoarse, dry voice. You aim carefully
and fire slowly and reload. Buzz-- And then you fume with a fierce
uncontrollable rage because you must aim carefully and fire slowly. And
the whole space in front of the trenches is covered with infantry
bullets glittering in the sunlight. Will it ever stop? Never! A day like
that has a hundred hours--two hundred. And if you had been there all by
yourself, you would never have dreamed of shooting over the edge of the
trenches--you would most probably have been crouching down in the pit.
But as you happen not to be alone, this can't be done. Will the enemy's
ammunition never give out? It's awful the way he keeps on shooting.
And that terrible thirst! Your throat is parched and your teeth feel
blunt from grinding the grains of sand which fly into your face whenever
an impudent little puff of smoke jumps up directly in front of you.
Sssst. The mosquitoes keep on singing, and the bees buzz perpetually.
Those dogs over there, those wretches, those-- Buzz, buzz, buzz--it
never stops, never. Over there to the right somebody cracks a joke and
several soldiers laugh. "Aim carefully, fire slowly!" sounds the warning
voice of the lieutenant. And it's all done on an empty stomach--a
perfectly empty stomach.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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