it and dispose of some of my perplexities once for all.â
He fell to hunting for his perplexities, but he couldnât find any of them. They were there, he knew, but just once out of reach, exasperatingly so.
âWell, letâs start over again. Where was I? Ah, yes, here it is. Horse dung, horse dung . . . But how the devil did I get here? Confound it, it isnât working at all now. All mixed up. Wait a minute and itâll clear up again. . . .â
He moved his head, trying to shake the confusion out of it, then choked. Bile welled up into his mouth and trickled out the corners. He tried to spit, but couldnât, so he was forced to swallow the rest. Darkness closed in on him and he was unconscious again.
The moon moved higher into the sky, the shadow moved lower on the side of the chalk pit. It moved imperceptibly across the figure of the lieutenant, then dropped away quickly from the roof to the threshold of the gallery entrance. A stone came bouncing down the side of the chalk pit and fell into the pool with a plop. There was a rustle of scurrying rats.
Paolacci came to with the smell of horse dung in his nostrils.
âAh, yes. A horse down here somewhere. But he canât get out unless I help him. Iâll see about that later, not now. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha . . .â
The thought of a horse down there had suddenly and inexplicably become a tremendously funny one. Paolacci was roaring with laughter, a laughter which came from his throat only. Imperceptibly as the movement of the shadow, Paolacciâs laughter was transformed into tears, and from tears into deep, intestinal sobs. These sobs shook him in a way the laughter hadnât. A fiery pain took form in his left shoulder and he raised his hand to it. It came back stained and sticky. Panic burst in him.
âHelp! Help! Iâm hit. Help! Help! Stretcher-bearers! Get me out of this! Down here! For the love of Christ! Help! Help! Iâm dying. Iâm all alone. Down here! Here, in the chalk pit! Jesus! Stretcher-bearers! Help! Help! Help! . . . Help . . .â
His shrieks echoed back and forth on the walls of the chalk pit. Each time he paused long enough to hear an echo, he mistook it for the voices of rescuers and redoubled his cries.
The moon faded from his sight, and he was still for a while. A rat climbed noiselessly up the jamb of the gallery entrance and looked at Paolacci for a long time. Then it turned and went down again. Two shells burst along the opposite wall, and a shower of gravel fell upon the unconscious lieutenant....
Paolacci began to feel the pain in his shoulder. He also felt a lump between his shoulder blades. He realized he wanted to get up and climb out of the pit, then waited for the desire to become more impelling. While waiting, his right hand began to move in exploration. It came in contact with the obstruction wedged against his cheek. He pushed, and it gave way, the smell of horse dung receding with it. He moved his head gingerly to look at the thing. It was his own boot, unmistakably. But how did it get there, near his face? He formulated the will to straighten his leg out, but there was no response. His hand moved downwards, feeling over his own body. He could feel his body, but his body, below the third or fourth button of his jacket, didnât seem to feel his hand. He pinched, and his pinch closed on air. He groped for his thigh and couldnât find it. Instead, his hand entered an enormous, sticky cavity which seemed lined with sharp points....
Gradually, with weary patience and a persistence which was constantly being thwarted by waves of silent delirium, he untangled the chaos of his life. He had been hit by that shell. One wound in his left shoulder and another, a much worse one, in his right hip. In falling into the chalk pit, his leg had been buckled back diagonally under him, and he was now lying on it, with his left cheek against his own heel.
âI must have been standing in some
He fell to hunting for his perplexities, but he couldnât find any of them. They were there, he knew, but just once out of reach, exasperatingly so.
âWell, letâs start over again. Where was I? Ah, yes, here it is. Horse dung, horse dung . . . But how the devil did I get here? Confound it, it isnât working at all now. All mixed up. Wait a minute and itâll clear up again. . . .â
He moved his head, trying to shake the confusion out of it, then choked. Bile welled up into his mouth and trickled out the corners. He tried to spit, but couldnât, so he was forced to swallow the rest. Darkness closed in on him and he was unconscious again.
The moon moved higher into the sky, the shadow moved lower on the side of the chalk pit. It moved imperceptibly across the figure of the lieutenant, then dropped away quickly from the roof to the threshold of the gallery entrance. A stone came bouncing down the side of the chalk pit and fell into the pool with a plop. There was a rustle of scurrying rats.
Paolacci came to with the smell of horse dung in his nostrils.
âAh, yes. A horse down here somewhere. But he canât get out unless I help him. Iâll see about that later, not now. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha . . .â
The thought of a horse down there had suddenly and inexplicably become a tremendously funny one. Paolacci was roaring with laughter, a laughter which came from his throat only. Imperceptibly as the movement of the shadow, Paolacciâs laughter was transformed into tears, and from tears into deep, intestinal sobs. These sobs shook him in a way the laughter hadnât. A fiery pain took form in his left shoulder and he raised his hand to it. It came back stained and sticky. Panic burst in him.
âHelp! Help! Iâm hit. Help! Help! Stretcher-bearers! Get me out of this! Down here! For the love of Christ! Help! Help! Iâm dying. Iâm all alone. Down here! Here, in the chalk pit! Jesus! Stretcher-bearers! Help! Help! Help! . . . Help . . .â
His shrieks echoed back and forth on the walls of the chalk pit. Each time he paused long enough to hear an echo, he mistook it for the voices of rescuers and redoubled his cries.
The moon faded from his sight, and he was still for a while. A rat climbed noiselessly up the jamb of the gallery entrance and looked at Paolacci for a long time. Then it turned and went down again. Two shells burst along the opposite wall, and a shower of gravel fell upon the unconscious lieutenant....
Paolacci began to feel the pain in his shoulder. He also felt a lump between his shoulder blades. He realized he wanted to get up and climb out of the pit, then waited for the desire to become more impelling. While waiting, his right hand began to move in exploration. It came in contact with the obstruction wedged against his cheek. He pushed, and it gave way, the smell of horse dung receding with it. He moved his head gingerly to look at the thing. It was his own boot, unmistakably. But how did it get there, near his face? He formulated the will to straighten his leg out, but there was no response. His hand moved downwards, feeling over his own body. He could feel his body, but his body, below the third or fourth button of his jacket, didnât seem to feel his hand. He pinched, and his pinch closed on air. He groped for his thigh and couldnât find it. Instead, his hand entered an enormous, sticky cavity which seemed lined with sharp points....
Gradually, with weary patience and a persistence which was constantly being thwarted by waves of silent delirium, he untangled the chaos of his life. He had been hit by that shell. One wound in his left shoulder and another, a much worse one, in his right hip. In falling into the chalk pit, his leg had been buckled back diagonally under him, and he was now lying on it, with his left cheek against his own heel.
âI must have been standing in some
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