rough hair and a thin, unkempt beard: cStop! Stop!
it is God you kill!' he screamed wildly.

No one saw or heard the man but a peasant who
was driving an ox-cart near-by on the road-way —
he was stupid, he stared. 'Stop! Stop! it is God!
It is God you kill ... it is God! It is God!5 The
peasant left his team, but too late, for the man had
already reached the line. Was he crazed? He was
standing with outstretched arms. 'Stop! Stop! it is
God . . .' Then the engine struck him.

A great sickening jolt as they flung on the brakes:
'What has happened? What is it?5 'Some poor devil
is done for!5 'But who? Let me see — move that car-
case of yours!5 'Stop kicking my corn, fils de noble
vache!5 'But who is it?5 eAh, bon, already a corpse,
a fine omen!5 Then a laugh: 'Only one among
many. Le voila! they have dragged what is left of
him out . . . Merde, it makes me feel quite homesick
for Flanders!5

Jan had been pushed back by the jostling poilus:
'Is it anyone from our own town?5 he kept asking.
'Tell me, is it anyone from our own town?5

Christophe managed to shoulder his way to the
window, and he saw the poor remnant of human
flesh, so torn, so fearful to look on in death. The face
had been all but obliterated, yet he knew that indes-
cribable blur.

Returning to Jan, he said quietly: 'A little child
has died . . . it is Anfos.5

468