As far as he could see in every direction were the grey trunks of
beeches bright green with moss on one side. The ground was thick with
last year's leaves that rustled maddeningly with every step. In front of
him his eyes followed other patches of olive-drab moving among the tree
trunks. Overhead, through the mottled light and dark green of the leaves
he could see now and then a patch of heavy grey sky, greyer than the
silvery trunks that moved about him in every direction as he walked.
He strained his eyes down each alley until they were dazzled by the
reiteration of mottled grey and green. Now and then the rustling stopped
ahead of him, and the olive-drab patches were still. Then, above the
clamour of the blood in his ears, he could hear batteries “pong, pong,
pong” in the distance, and the woods ringing with a sound like hail as
a heavy shell hurtled above the tree tops to end in a dull rumble miles
away.
Chrisfield was soaked with sweat, but he could not feel his arms
or legs. Every sense was concentrated in eyes and ears, and in the
consciousness of his gun. Time and again he pictured himself taking
sight at something grey that moved, and firing. His forefinger itched to
press the trigger. He would take aim very carefully, he told himself;
he pictured a dab of grey starting up from behind a grey tree trunk, and
the sharp detonation of his rifle, and the dab of grey rolling among the
last year's leaves.
A branch carried his helmet off his head so that it rolled at his feet
and bounced with a faint metallic sound against the root of a tree.
He was blinded by the sudden terror that seized him. His heart seemed to
roll from side to side in his chest. He stood stiff, as if paralyzed
for a moment before he could stoop and pick the helmet up. There was a
curious taste of blood in his mouth.
“Ah'll pay 'em fer that,” he muttered between clenched teeth.
His fingers were still trembling when he stooped to pick up the helmet,
which he put on again very carefully, fastening it with the strap under
his chin. Furious anger had taken hold of him. The olive-drab patches
ahead had moved forward again. He followed, looking eagerly to the right
and the left, praying he might see something. In every direction were
the silvery trunk of the beeches, each with a vivid green streak on one
side. With every step the last year's russet leaves rustled underfoot,
maddeningly loud.
Almost out of sight among the moving tree trunks was a log. It was not
a log; it was a bunch of grey-green cloth. Without thinking Chrisfield
strode towards it. The silver trunks of the beeches circled about him,
waving jagged arms. It was a German lying full length among the leaves.
Chrisfield was furiously happy in the angry pumping of blood through his
veins.
He could see the buttons on the back of the long coat of the German, and
the red band on his cap.
He kicked the German. He could feel the ribs against his toes through
the leather of his boot. He kicked again and again with all his might.
The German rolled over heavily. He had no face. Chrisfield felt the
hatred suddenly ebb out of him. Where the face had been was a spongy
mass of purple and yellow and red, half of which stuck to the russet
leaves when the body rolled over. Large flies with bright shiny green
bodies circled about it. In a brown clay-grimed hand was a revolver.
Chrisfield felt his spine go cold; the German had shot himself.
He ran off suddenly, breathlessly, to join the rest of the
reconnoitering squad. The silent beeches whirled about him, waving
gnarled boughs above his head. The German had shot himself. That was why
he had no face.
Chrisfield fell into line behind the other men. The corporal waited for
him.
“See anything?” he asked.
“Not a goddam thing,” muttered Chrisfield almost inaudibly. The corporal
went off to the head of the line. Chrisfield was alone again. The leaves
rustled maddeningly loud underfoot.