We slept in the loft of one of the buildings that formed the left wing
of the courtyard of the castle. To enter it, we had to pass through a
kind of lumber-room on the ground floor in which the hospital coffins
were kept. Above was a great, dim loft, rich in a greasy, stably smell,
a smell of horses and sweaty leather, the odor of a dirty harness room.
At the end of the room, on a kind of raised platform, was the straw in
which we lay; a crazy, sagging shelf, covered with oily dust, bundles
of clothes, knapsacks, books, candle ends, and steel helmets, ran
along the wall over our heads. All night long, the horses underneath
us squealed, pounded, and kicked. I see in the lilac dawn of a winter
morning the yellow light of an officer's lantern, and hear the call,
"Up, boys--there's a call to B." The bundles in the dirty blankets
groan; unshaven, unwashed faces turn tired eyes to the lantern; some,
completely worn out, lie in a kind of sleepy stupor. A wicked screaming
whistle passes over our heads, and the shell, bursting on a near-by
location, startles the dawn.
The snow begins to fall again. The river has fallen, and the air is
sickish with the dank smell of the uncovered meadows. A regiment on
the way to the front has encamped just beyond the hospital. The men
are trying to build little shelters. A handful of fagots is blazing in
the angle of two walls; a handful of grave-faced men stand round it,
stamping their feet. In the hospital yard, the stretcher-bearers unload
the body of an officer who has died in the ambulance. The dead man's
face is very calm and peaceful, though the bandages indicate terrible
wounds. The cannon flashes still jab the snowy sky.