The Red Glutton: With the German Army at the FrontCobb, Irvin S. (Irvin Shrewsbury)
History
The Red Glutton: With the German Army at the Front
Cobb, Irvin S. (Irvin Shrewsbury)
World War, 1914-1918 -- Campaigns -- Western Front; World War, 1914-1918 -- Personal narratives
She rocked and twisted and bent half double in the pangs of a fearful
tummy-ache, and at every paroxysm the car lurched in sympathy, only
to be brought up short by the pull of the taut cable; so that we
two, wedged in together as we were, nevertheless jostled each other
violently. I am a poor sailor, both by instinct and training. By rights
and by precedents I should have been violently ill on the instant; but
I did not have time to be ill.
My fellow traveler all this while was pointing out this thing and that
to me--showing how the telephone operated; how his field glasses poised
just before his eyes, being swung and balanced on a delicately adjusted
suspended pivot; telling me how on a perfectly clear day--this October
day was slightly hazy--we could see the Eiffel Tower in Paris, and the
Cathedral at Rheims; gyrating his hands to explain the manner in which
the horses, trotting away from us as we climbed upward, had given to
the drum on the wagon a reverse motion, so that the cable was payed out
evenly and regularly. But I am afraid I did not listen closely. My eyes
were so busy that my ears loafed on the job.
For once in my life--and doubtlessly only once--I saw now
understandingly a battle front. It was spread before me--lines and dots
and dashes on a big green and brown and yellow map. Why, the whole
thing was as plain as a chart. I had a reserved seat for the biggest
show on earth.
To be sure it was a gallery seat, for the terrace from which we started
stood fully five hundred feet above the bottom of the valley, and
we had ascended approximately seven hundred feet above that, giving
us an altitude of, say, twelve hundred feet in all above the level
of the river; but a gallery seat suited me. It suited me perfectly.
The great plateau, stretching from the high hill behind us, to the
river in front of us, portrayed itself, when viewed from aloft, as a
shallow bowl, alternately grooved by small depressions and corrugated
by small ridges. Here and there were thin woodlands, looking exactly
like scrubby clothes brushes. The fields were checkered squares and
oblongs, and a ruined village in the distance seemed a jumbled handful
of children's gray and red blocks.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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