The Great Swathe of the Lines
The time was coming when I was to see the mysterious region whence came
the wounded of La Chapelle, and, a militaire myself, share the life of
the French soldier. Late one evening in October, I arrived in Nancy and
went to a hotel I had known well before the war. An old porter, a man of
sixty, with big, bowed shoulders, gray hair, and a florid face almost
devoid of expression, carried up my luggage, and as I looked at him,
standing in the doorway, a simple figure in his striped black and yellow
vest and white apron, I wondered just what effect the war had had on
him. Through the open window of the room, seen over the dark silhouette
of the roofs of Nancy, shone the glowing red sky and rolling smoke of
the vast munition works at Pompey and Frouard.
"You were not here when I came to the hotel two years ago," said I.
"No," he answered; "I have been here only since November, 1914."
"You are a Frenchman? There was a Swiss here, then."
"Yes, indeed, I am Français, monsieur. The Swiss is now a waiter in a
café of the Place Stanislas. It is something new to me to be a hotel
porter."
"Tiens. What did you do?"
"I drove a coal team, monsieur."
"How, then, did you happen to come here?"
"I used to deliver coal to the hotel. One day I heard that the Swiss had
gone to the café to take the place of a garçon whose class had just been
called out. I was getting sick of carrying the heavy sacks of coal, and
being always out of doors, so I applied for the porter's job."
"You are satisfied with the change."
"Oh, yes, indeed, monsieur."
"I suppose you have kinsmen at the front."
"Only my sister's son, monsieur."
"In the active forces?"
"No, he is a reservist. He is a man thirty-five years of age. He was
wounded by a shrapnel ball in the groin early in the spring, but is now
at the front again."
"What does he do en civil?"
"He is a furniture-maker, monsieur."
He showed no sign of unrest at my catechizing, and plodded off down the
green velvet carpet to the landing-stage of the elevator. In the street
below a crowd was coming out of the silky white radiance of the lobby of
a cinema into the violet rays thrown upon the sidewalk from the
illuminated sign over the theater door. There are certain French cities
to which the war has brought a real prosperity, and Nancy was then one
of them. The thousands of refugees from the frontier villages and the
world of military officials and soldier workmen mobilized in the
ammunition factories had added to the population till it was actually
greater than it had been before the war, and with this new population
had come a development of the city's commercial life. The middle class
was making money, the rich were getting richer, and Nancy, hardly more
than eighteen or nineteen miles from the trenches, forgot its danger
till, on the first day of January, 1916, the Germans fired several
shells from a giant mortar or a marine piece into the town, one of which
scattered the fragments of a big five-story apartment house all over
Nancy. And on that afternoon thirty thousand people left the city.
The day on which I was to go across the great swathe of the front to the
first-line trenches dawned cool and sunny. I use the word "swathe"
purposely, for only by that image can the real meaning of the phrase
"the front" be understood. The thick, black line which figures on the
war-maps is a great swathe of country running, with a thousand little
turns and twists that do not interfere with its general regularity, from
the summits of the Vosges to the yellow dunes of the North Sea. The
relation of the border of this swathe to the world beyond is the
relation of sea to land along an irregular and indented coast. Here an
isolated, strategic point, fiercely defended by the Germans, has
extended the border of the swathe beyond the usual limits, and villages
thirteen and fourteen miles from the actual lines have been pounded to
pieces by long-range artillery in the hope of destroying the enemy's
communications; there the trenches cross an obscure, level moor upon
whose possession nothing particular depends, and the swathe narrows to
the villages close by the lines. This swathe, which begins with the
French communications, passes the French trenches, leaps "No Man's
Land," and continues beyond the German trenches to the German
communications, averages about twenty-two miles in width. The territory
within this swathe is inhabited by soldiers, ruled by soldiers, worked
by soldiers, and organized for war.
Sometimes the transition between civilian life and the life of the
swathe is abrupt, as, for instance, at Verdun, where the villages beyond
the lines have been emptied of civilian inhabitants to make room for the
soldiery; but at other times the change is gradual and the peasants
continue to work fields almost in the shadow of the trenches. Since the
line of trenches was organized by the Germans only after a series of
engagements along the front, during which the battle-line oscillated
over a wide territory, the approach to the swathe is often through a
region of desolated villages sometimes far removed from the present
trenches. Such is the state of affairs in the region of the Marne, the
Argonne, and on the southern bank of the Moselle. Moss-overgrown and
silent, these villages often stand deserted in the fields at the
entrance to the swathe, fit heralds of the desolation that lies beyond.
Imagine, then, the French half of the swathe extending from the edge of
the civilian world to the barbed-wire entanglements of No Man's Land.
Within this territory, in the trenches, in the artillery positions, in
the villages where troops are quartered (and they are quartered in every
village of the swathe), and along all the principal turns and corners of
the roads, a certain number of shells fall every twenty-four hours, the
number of shells per locality increasing as one advances toward the
first lines. There are certain disputed regions, that of Verdun in
particular, where literally the whole great swathe has been pounded to
pieces, till hardly one stone of a village remains on another, and
during the recent offensive in the Somme the British are said to have
systematically wiped out every village, hamlet, and road behind the
German trenches to a depth of eighteen miles. Yet, protected from rifle
bullets and the majority of shells by a great wooded hill, the
inhabitants of M------, one mile from the lines of the Bois-le-Prêtre,
did a thriving business selling fruit to the soldiers, and I once saw an
old peasant woman, who was digging potatoes in her garden when a small
shell burst about two hundred feet from her, shake her fist toward the
German lines, mutter something, and plod angrily home to her cellar.
There are rarely any children close to the trenches, but in villages
that are only occasionally shelled, the school is open, and the class
hurries to the cellar at the first alarm.
The lieutenant of the American Section, à young Frenchman who spoke
English not only fluently, but also with distinction, came to Nancy to
take me to the front. It was a clear, sunny morning, and the rumble of
the commercial life of Nancy, somewhat later in starting than our own,
was just beginning to be heard. Across the street from the
breakfast-room of the hotel, a young woman wearing a little black cape
over her shoulders rolled up the corrugated iron shutter of a
confectioner's shop and began to set the window with the popular
patriotic candy boxes, aluminum models of a "seventy-five" shell tied
round with a bow of narrow tricolor ribbon; a baker's boy in a white
apron and blue jumpers went by carrying a basket of bread on his head;
and from the nearby tobacconist's, a spruce young lieutenant dressed in
a black uniform emerged lighting a cigarette. At nine in the morning I
was contemplating a side street of busy, orderly, sunlit Nancy; that
night I was in a cellar seeking refuge from fire shells.
"Please give me all your military papers," said my officer. I handed
over all the cards, permits, and licenses that had been given me, and he
examined them closely.
"Allons, let us go," he said to his chauffeur, a young soldier wearing
the insignia of the motor-transportation corps.
"How long does it take us to get to the lines, mon lieutenant?"
"About an hour. Our headquarters are thirty kilomètres distant."
The big, war-gray Panhard began to move. I looked round, eager to notice
anything that marked our transition from peace to war. Beyond the Nancy,
built in the Versailles style by the exiled Stanislaus, lay the
industrial Nancy which has grown up since the development of the iron
mines of French Lorraine in the eighties. Through this ugly huddle we
passed first: there were working men on the sidewalks, gamins in the
gutters,--nothing to remind one of the war.
"Halt!"
At a turn in the road near the outskirts of the city, a sentry, a small,
gray-haired man, had stepped out before the car. From the door of a
neighboring wineshop, a hideous old woman, her uncombed, tawny yellow
hair messed round her coarse, shiny face, came out to look at us.
"Your papers, please," said a red-faced, middle-aged sergeant wearing a
brown corduroy uniform, who, walking briskly on enormous fat legs, had
followed the sentry out into the street. The lieutenant produced the
military permit to travel in the army zone--the ordre de mouvement, a
printed form on a blue sheet about the size of a leaf of typewriter
paper.
"Pass," said the sergeant, and saluted. The sentry retired to his post
on the sidewalk. At the door of the wineshop the woman continued to
stare at us with an animal curiosity. Possibly our English-like uniforms
had attracted her attention; the French are very curious about les
Anglais. Over the roof of an ugly row of working men's barracks, built
of mortar and trimmed with dingy brick, came the uproar of a great
industry, the humming clang of saws, the ringing of iron on iron, and
the heart-beat thump of a great hammer that shook the earth. In a vast,
detached building five great furnaces were crowned with tufts of pinkish
fire, workmen were crossing the cindery yard dragging little carts and
long strips of iron, and a long line of open freight cars was being
emptied of coal.
"They are making shells," said the lieutenant in the tone that he might
have said, "They are making candy."
Another sentry held us up at the bridge where the road crosses the
Moselle as it issues from the highlands to the southwest.
Beyond the bridge, running almost directly north to Metz, lay the
historic valley of the Moselle. Great, bare hills, varying between seven
hundred and a thousand feet in height, and often carved by erosion into
strange, high triangles and abrupt mesas, formed the valley wall. The
ground color of the hills was a warm buff-brown with a good deal of
iron-red in it, and the sky above was of a light, friendly blue. A
strange, Egyptian emerald of new wheat, a certain deep cobalt of cloud
shadows, and a ruddy brownness of field and moor are the colors of
Lorraine. Here and there, on the meadows of the river and the steep
flanks of the hills, were ancient, red-roofed villages. Across the
autumnal fields the smoke and flame of squalid Pompey loomed strangely.
There were signs of the war at Marbache, fourteen kilomètres from Nancy,
slight signs, to be sure, but good ones--the presence of a military
smithy for the repair of army wagons, several of which stood by on rusty
wheels, and a view of some twenty or thirty artillery caissons parked
under the trees. But it was at B------, sixteen kilomètres from Nancy,
and sixteen from the lines, that I first felt the imminence of the war.
The morning train from Nancy had just stopped, to go no farther for fear
of shells, and beyond the station the tracks of the once busy Nancy-Metz
railroad advanced, rusty, unused, and overgrown with grass, into the
danger zone. Far behind now lay civilian Pompey, and Marbache shared by
soldiers and civilians. B------was distinctly a village of the soldiery.
The little hamlet, now the junction where the wagon-trains supplying the
soldiery meet the great artery of the railroad, was built on the banks
of a canal above the river. The color of these villages in Lorraine is
rather lovely, for the walls of the houses, built of the local
buff-yellow stone and ferrous sand, are of a warm, brown tone that goes
well with the roofs of claret-red tile and the brown landscape. A
glorious sky of silvery white cloud masses, pierced with sunlight and
islanded with soft blue, shone over the soldier village. There were no
combatants in it when we passed through, only the old poilus who drove
the wagons to the trenches and the army hostlers who looked after the
animals. There were pictures of soldier grooms leading horses down a
narrow, slimy street between brown, mud-spattered walls to a
drinking-trough; of horses lined up along a house wall being briskly
curry-combed by big, thick-set fellows in blousy white overalls and blue
fatigue caps; and of doors of stables opening on the road showing a
bedding of brown straw on the earthen floor. There was a certain stench,
too, the smell of horse-fouled mud that mixed with that odor I later was
able to classify as the smell of war. For the war has a smell that
clings to everything miltary, fills the troop-trains, hospitals, and
cantonments, and saturates one's own clothing, a smell compounded of
horse, chemicals, sweat, mud, dirt, and human beings. At the guarded
exit of the village to the shell zone was a little military cemetery in
which rows of wooden crosses stood with the regularity of pins in a
paper.
Two kilomètres farther on, at Dieulouard, we drew into the shell zone. A
cottage had been struck the day before, and the shell, arriving by the
roof, had blown part of the front wall out into the street. In the
façade of the house, to the left of a door hanging crazily on its
hinges, an irregular oval hole, large enough to drive a motor-car
through, rose from the ground and came to a point just below the
overhang of the roof. The edges of the broken stone were clean and new
in contrast to the time-soiled outer wall of the dwelling.
A pile of this clean stone lay on the ground at the outer opening of the
orifice, mixed with fragments of red tiles.
"They killed two there yesterday," said the lieutenant, pointing out the
débris.
The village, a farming hamlet transformed by the vicinity of a great
foundry into something neither a village nor a town, was full of
soldiers; there were soldiers in the streets, soldiers standing in
doorways, soldiers cooking over wood fires, soldiers everywhere. And
looking at the muddy village-town full of men in uniforms of blue, old
uniforms of blue, muddy uniforms of blue, in blue that was blue-gray and
blue-green from wear and exposure to the weather, I realized that the
old days of beautiful, half-barbaric uniforms were gone forever, and
that, in place of the old romantic war of cavalry charges and great
battles in the open, a new, more terrible war had been created, a war
that had not the chivalric externals of the old.
After Dieulouard began the swathe of stillness.
Following the western bank of the canal of the Moselle the road made a
great curve round the base of a hill descending to the river, and then
mounted a little spur of the valley wall. Beyond the spur the road went
through lonely fields, in which were deserted farmhouses surrounded by
acres of neglected vines, now rank and Medusa-like in their weedy
profusion. Every once in a while, along a rise, stood great burlap
screens so arranged one behind the other as to give the effect of a
continuous line when seen from a certain angle.
"What are those for?"
"To hide the road from the Germans. Do you see that little village down
there on the crest? The Boches have an observatory there, and shell the
road whenever they see anything worth shelling."
A strange stillness pervaded the air; not a stillness of death and
decay, but the stillness of life that listens. The sun continued to
shine on the brown moorland hills across the gray-green river, the world
was quite the same, yet one sensed that something had changed. A village
lay ahead of us, disfigured by random shells and half deserted. Beyond
the still, shell-spattered houses, a great wood rose, about a mile and a
half away, on a ridge that stood boldly against the sky. Running from
the edge of the trees down across an open slope to the river was a
brownish line that stood in a little contrast to the yellower grass.
Suddenly, there slowly rose from this line a great puff of grayish-black
smoke which melted away in the clear, autumnal air.
"See," said our lieutenant calmly, with no more emotion than he would
have shown at a bonfire--"those are the German trenches. We have just
fired a shell into them."
Two minutes more took us into the dead, deserted city of Pont-à-Mousson.
The road was now everywhere screened carefully with lengths of
light-brown burlap, and there was not a single house that did not bear
witness to the power of a shell. The sense of "the front" began to
possess me, never to go, the sense of being in the vicinity of a
tremendous power. A ruined village, or a deserted town actually on the
front does not bring to mind any impression of decay, for the intellect
tends rather to consider t\& means by which the destruction has been
accomplished. One sees villages of the swathes so completely blown to
pieces that they are literally nothing but earthy mounds of rubbish, and
seeing them thus, in a plain still fiercely disputed night and day
between one's own side and the invisible enemy, the mind feels itself in
the presence of force, titanic, secret, and hostile.
Beyond Pont-à-Mousson the road led directly to the trenches of the
Bois-le-Prêtre, less than half a mile away. But the disputed trenches
were hidden behind the trees, and I could not see them. Through the
silence of the deserted town sounded the muffled boom of shells and
trench engines bursting in the wood beyond, and every now and then
clouds of gray-black smoke from the explosion would rise above the brown
leaves of the ash trees. The smoke of these explosions rose straight
upwards in a foggy column, such as a locomotive might make if, halted on
its tracks somewhere in the wood, it had put coal on its fires.
With the next day I began my service at the trenches, but the war began
for me that very night.
A room in a bourgeois flat on the third floor of a deserted apartment
house had been assigned me. It was nine o'clock, and I was getting ready
to roll up in my blankets and go to sleep. Beneath the starlit heavens
the street below was black as pitch save when a trench light, floating
serenely down the sky, illuminated with its green-white glow the curving
road and the line of dark, abandoned, half-ruinous villas. There was not
a sound to be heard outside of an occasional rifle shot in the trenches,
sounding for all the world like the click of giant croquet balls. I went
round to the rear of the house and looked out of the kitchen windows to
the lines. A little action, some quarrel of sentries, perhaps, was going
on behind the trees, just where the wooded ridge sloped to the river.
Trench light after trench light rose, showing the disused railroad track
running across the un-harvested fields. Gleaming palely through the
French window at which I was standing, the radiance revealed the
deserted kitchen, the rusty stove, the dusty pans, and the tarnished
water-tap above the stone sink. The hard, wooden crash of grenades broke
upon my ears.
My own room was lit by the yellow flame of a solitary candle, rising,
untroubled by the slightest breath of wind, straight into the air. A
large rug of old-rose covered the floor, an old-rose velvet canopy
draped a long table, hanging down at the corners in straight, heavy
creases, and the wallpaper was a golden yellow with faint stripes of
silvery-gray glaze. By the side of the wooden bed stood a high cabinet
holding about fifty terra-cotta and porcelain figurines, shiny
shepherdesses with shiny pink cheeks, Louis XV peasants with rakes on
their shoulders, and three little dogs made of a material the color of
cocoa. The gem of the collection was an eighteenth-century porcelain of
a youth and a maid sitting on opposite sides of a curved bench over
whose center rose a blossoming bush. The youth, dressed in black, and
wearing yellow stockings, looked with an amorous smile at the girl in
her gorgeous dress of flowering brocade.
A marbly-white fireplace stood in the corner, overhung by a great Louis
XV mirror with a gilt frame of rich, voluptuous curves. On the mantel
lay a scarf of old-rose velvet smelling decidedly musty. Alone, apart,
upon this mantel, as an altar, stood a colored plaster bust of Jeanne
d'Arc, showing her in the beauty of her winsome youth. The pale, girlish
face dominated the shadowy room with its dreamy, innocent loveliness.
There came a knock at the door, and so still was the town and the house
that the knock had the effect of something dramatic and portentous. A
big man, with bulging, pink cheeks, a large, chestnut mustache, and
brown eyes full of philosophic curiosity, stood in the doorway. The
uniform that he was wearing was unusually neat and clean.
"So you are the American I am to have as neighbor," said he.
"Yes," I replied.
"I am the caporal in charge of the dépôt of the engineers in the
cellar," continued my visitor, "and I thought I'd come in and see how
you were."
I invited him to enter.
"Do you find yourself comfortable here, son?"
"Yes. I consider myself privileged to have the use of the room. Have a
cigarette?"
"Are these American cigarettes?"
"Yes."
"Your American tobacco is fine, son. But in America everybody is a
millionaire and has the best of everything--isn't that so? I should like
to go to America."
"A Frenchman is never happy out of France."
Comfortably seated in a big, ugly chair, he puffed his cigarette and
meditated.
"Perhaps you are right," he admitted. "We Frenchmen love the good
things, and think we can get them in France better than anywhere else.
The solid satisfactions of life--good wine--good cheese." He paused.
"You see, son, all that (tout ça) is an affair of mine--in civilian life
(dans le civil) I am a grocer at Macon in Bourgogne."
For a little while we talked of Burgundy, which I had often visited in
my student days at Lyons. There came another pause, and the Burgundian
said:--
"Well, what do you think of this big racket (ce grand fracas)?"
"I have not seen enough of it to say."
"Well, I think you are going to get a taste of it to-night. I heard our
artillery men (nos artiflots) early this morning firing their long-range
cannon, and every time they do that the Boches throw shells into
Pont-à-Mousson. I have been expecting an answer all day. If they start
in to-night, get up and come down cellar, son. This house was struck by
a shell two weeks ago."
The shadowy, candlelit room and the dark city became at his words more
mysterious and hostile. The atmosphere seemed pervaded by some obscure,
endless, dreadful threat. It was getting toward ten o'clock.
"Is this the only room you have? I have never been in this suite."
"No, there is another room. Would you like to see it?"
He followed me into a small chamber from which everything had been
stripped except a bedside table, a chair, and a crayon portrait of a
woman. The picture, slightly tinted with flesh color, was that of a
bourgeoise on the threshold of the fifties, and the still candle-flame
brought out in distinct relief the heavy, obese countenance, the hair
curled in artificial ringlets, and the gold crucifix which she wore on
her large bosom. The Burgundian's attention centered on this picture,
which he examined with the air of a connoisseur of female beauty.
"Lord, how ugly she is!" he exclaimed. "She might well have stayed. Such
an old dragon would have no reason to fear the Boches." And he laughed
heartily from his rich lips and pulled his mustache.
"Don't forget to hurry to the cellar, son," he called as he went away.
At his departure the lonely night closed in on me again. Far, far away
sounded the booming of cannon.
I am a light sleeper, and the arrival of the first shell awakened me.
Kicking off my blankets, I sat up in bed just in time to catch the swift
ebb of a heavy concussion. A piece of glass, dislodged from a broken
pane by the tremor, fell in a treble tinkle to the floor. For a minute
or two there was a full, heavy silence, and then several objects rolled
down the roof and fell over the gutters into the street. It sounded as
if some one had emptied a hodful of coal onto the house-roof from the
height of the clouds. Another silence followed. Suddenly it was broken
by a swift, complete sound, a heavy boom-roar, and on the heels of this
noise came a throbbing, whistling sigh that, at first faint as the sound
of ocean on a distant beach, increased with incredible speed to a
whistling swish, ending in a HISH of tremendous volume and a roaring,
grinding burst. The sound of a great shell is never a pure bang; one
hears, rather, the end of the arriving HISH, the explosion, and the
tearing disintegration of the thick wall of iron in one grinding
hammer-blow of terrific violence. On the heels of this second shell came
voices in the dark street, and the rosy glow of fire from somewhere
behind. More lumps, fragments of shell that had been shot into the air
by the explosion, rained down upon the roof. I got up and went to the
kitchen window. A house on one of the silent streets between the city
and the lines was on fire, great volumes of smoke were rolling off into
the starlit night, and voices were heard all about murmuring in the
shadows. I hurried on my clothes and went down to the cellar.
The light of two candles hanging from a shelf in loops of wire revealed
a clean, high cellar; a mess of straw was strewn along one wall, and a
stack of shovels and picks, some of them wrapped in paper, was banked
against the other. In the straw lay three oldish men, fully clad in the
dark-blue uniform which in old times had signaled the Engineer Corps;
one dozed with his head on his arm, the other two were stretched out
flat in the mysterious grossness of sleep. A door from the cellar to a
sunken garden was open, and through this opening streamed the intense
radiance of the rising fire. At the opening stood three men, my visitor
of the evening, a little, wrinkled man with Napoleon III whiskers and
imperial, and an old, dwarfish fellow with a short neck, a bullet head,
and close-clipped hair. Catching sight of me, the Burgundian said:--
"Well, son, you see it is hammering away (ça tape) ce soir."
Hearing another shell, he slammed the door, and stepped to the right
behind the stone wall of the cellar.
"Very bad," croaked the dwarf. "The Boches are throwing fire shells."
"And they will fire shrapnel at the poor bougres who have to put out the
fires," said the little man with the imperial.
"So they will, those knaves," croaked the dwarf in a voice entirely free
from any emotion. "That fire must be down on the Boulevard Ney," said
the bearded man.
"There is another beginning just to the right," said the Burgundian in
the tone of one retailing interesting but hardly useful information.
"There will be others," croaked the dwarf, who, leaning against the
cellar wall, was trying to roll a cigarette with big, square, fumbling
fingers. And looking at a big, gray-haired man in the hay, who had
turned over and was beginning to snore, he added: "Look at the new man.
He sleeps well, that fellow" (ce type là).
"He looks like a Breton," said the man with the imperial.
"An Auvergnat--an Auvergnat," replied the dwarf in a tone that was meant
to be final.
The soldier, who had just been sent down from Paris to take the place of
another recently invalided home, snored on, unconscious of our scrutiny.
The light from the fires outside cast a rosy glow on his weather-worn
features and sparse, silvery hair. His own curiosity stirred, the
corporal looked at his list.
"He came from Lyons," he announced. "His name is Alphonse Reboulet."
"I am glad he is not an Auvergnat," growled the dwarf. "We should have
all had fleas."
A shell burst very near, and a bitter odor of explosives came swirling
through the doorway. A fragment of the shell casing struck a window
above us, and a large piece of glass fell by the doorway and broke into
splinters. The first fire was dying down, but two others were burning
briskly. The soldiers waited for the end of the bombardment, as they
might have waited for the end of a thunderstorm.
"Tiens--here comes the shrapnel," exclaimed the Burgundian. And he
slammed the door swiftly.
A high, clear whistle cleaved the flame-lit sky, and about thirty small
shrapnel shells burst beyond us.
"They try to prevent any one putting out the fires," said the Burgundian
confidentially. "They get the range from the light of the flames."
Another dreadful rafale (volley) of shrapnel, at the rate of ten or
fifteen a minute, came speeding from the German lines.
"They are firing on the other house, now."
"Who puts out the fires?"
"The territorials who police and clean up the town. Some of them live
two doors below."
The Burgundian pointed down the garden to a door opening, like our own,
on to an area below the level of the street. Suddenly, a gate opening on
a back lane swung back, and two soldiers entered, one carrying the feet
and the other the shoulders of a third. The body hung clumsily between
them like a piece of old sacking.
"Tiens--someone is wounded," said the Burgundian. "Go, thou, Badel, and
see who it is."
The dwarf plodded off obediently.
"It is Palester," he announced on his return, "the type that had the
swollen jaw last month."
"What's the matter with him?"
"He's been killed."