the Sergeant had warned them. Toto was vomiting
while he killed,, the vomit was red, he had drunk too
much wine, it had soured in his stomach because of
his terror. He was retching but he dared not stop to
be sick . . . was the smoke less dense? one could see
things so clearly . . . blood was trickling onto Toto's
hand from a long, shallow gash across his wrist. . . .
And the guns, were they suddenly making less noise?
one could hear other sounds. . . . O God, O God,
the groans of the dying, the shrieks of the wounded,
the angers that thundered deep in men's hearts. . . .
A mule had broken loose, no, two mules, over there
on the right — they were dragging their traces. But
how could one see them so far away? As they galloped
they were leaving great splashes of crimson. Shoot
them, someone! Have pity on them, God; are You
dead? Shoot them! Shoot them! They do not under-
stand . . . they suffer and do not understand. . . .
There was no God, men had killed their God; that
was why, being dead, He could not feel pity. Jan was
leaning forward the better to lunge ... he had
lunged and blood spurted into his face . . . a baptism
of blood ... he was coughing and spitting. He had
stumbled. A-a-h, would you? A mighty thrust, then
a sickening weight at the end of one's rifle.

A pause for the second wave to come up. The Turks
were leaving their wounded behind them . . . that
boy with the delicate, clutching hands and the soft
white skin —he looked like a woman. On again.
Jan, for Christ's sake do not crush out his life! For
Christ's sake. . . . Jan was mad, he must be mad,
he was killing in the name of the Trinity: cln nomine
Patris, et FiUi, et Spiritus Sancti. . . .'

Hours had passed . . . were they hours or years
that had passed? He and Jan were still fighting side
476