There is no one day of which you can say: "My youth ended then. On the Monday the ball of my vision had eagles that flew unabashed to the sun. On the Tuesday it hadn't." The season of rapture1 goes out like a tide that has turned; a time has come when the mud flats are bare; but, long after the ebb2 has set in, any wave that has taken a special strength of its own from some combination of flukes out at sea may cover them up for a moment—may even throw itself far up the beach, making as if to recapture the lost high-water mark. So the youth of our war had its feints at renewal3, hours of Indian summer when there was wine again in the air; in the "bare, ruined choirs4" a lated golden auriole would strike up once more for a while, before leaving.
Because hope does spring eternal the evening before a great battle must always make fires leap up in the mind. The calm before Thermopyl?, the rival camps on the night before Agincourt, the ball before Waterloo—not without reason have writers of genius, searching for glimpses of life in its most fugitive5 acme6 of bloom, the poised7 and just breaking crest8 of the wave, gone to places and times of the kind. For there the wits and the heart may be really astir and at gaze, and the common man may have, for the hour, the artist's vision of life as an adventure and challenge, lovely, harsh, fleeting9, and strange. The great throw, the new age's impending10 nativity, Fate with her fingers approaching the veil, about to lift—a sense of these things is a drug as strong as strychnine to quicken the failing pulse of the most heart-weary of moribund11 raptures12.
We all had the dope in our wine on the night of August 7, 1918. At daybreak our troops to the east of Amiens would second the first blow of Foch at the German salient towards Paris, the giant arm that was now left sticking out into the air to be hit; its own smashing blow had been struck without killing13; its first strength was spent; the spirit behind it was cracking; now, in its moment of check, of lost momentum14, of risky15 extension, now to have at it and smash it. The bull had rushed right on to gore16 us and missed; we had his flank to stab now.
Someone who dined at the mess had just motored from Paris, through white dust and sunshine and, everywhere, quickly turned heads and eager faces. He had been in the streets all the night of the enemy's last mighty17 lunge at the city. He spoke18 of the silent crowds blackening the boulevards through the few hours of midsummer darkness; other crowds on the sky-line of roofs, all black and immobile, the whole city hushed to hear the bombardment, and staring, staring fixedly19 east at the flame that incessantly20 winked21 in the sky above Chateau-Thierry—history come to life, still enigmatic, but audible, visible, galloping23 through the night. Poor old France, tormented24 and stoical, what could not the world forgive her? Then he had seen the news come the next day to these that had thus watched as the non-combatants watched from the high walls of Troy; and how an American had broken down uncontrollably on hearing how his country's Third Division had bundled the Germans back into the Marne: "We are all right! By God, we are all right!" he had cried, a whole new nation's secret self-distrust before a supercilious25 ancient world changing into a younger boy's ecstasy26 of relief in the thought that now he has jolly well given his proofs and the older boys will not sneer27 at him now, and he never need bluff28 any more. Good fellows really, the Yanks; most simple and human as soon as you knew them. One seemed to know everyone then, for that evening.
II
Night came on cloudless and windless and braced29 with autumn's first astringent30 tang of coolness. Above, as I lay on my back in the meadow, the whole dome31 had a stir of life in its shimmering32 fresco33, stars flashing and winking34 with that eager air of having great things to impart—they have it on frosty nights in the Alps, over a high bivouac. We were all worked up, you see. Could it be coming at last, I thought as I went to sleep—the battle unlike other battles? How many I had seen outlive their little youth of groundless hope, from the approach along darkened roads through summer nights, the eastern sky pulsating35 with its crimson36 flush, the wild glow always leaping up and always drawing in, and the waiting cavalry37's lances upright, black and multitudinous in road-side fields, impaling38 the blenching39 sky just above the horizon; and then, in the bald dawn, the backward trickles40 of wastage swelling41 into great streams or rather endless friezes42 seen in silhouette43 across the fields, the trailing processions of wounded, English and German, on foot and on stretchers, dripping so much blood that some of the tracks were flamboyantly44 marked for miles across country; and then the evening's reports, with their anxious efforts to show that we had gained something worth having. Was it to be only Loos and the Somme and Arras and Flanders and Cambrai, all over again?
Thought must have passed into dream when I was awakened45 by some bird that may have had a dream too and had fallen right off its perch46 in a bush near my head, with a disconcerted squeak47 and a scuffling sound among dry leaves. Opening my eyes, I found that a thickish veil was drawn48 over the stars. When I sat up the veil was gone; my eyes were above it; a quilt of white mist, about a foot thick, had spread itself over the meadow. Good! Let it thicken away and be shoes of silence and armour49 of darkness at dawn for our men. Soon night's habitual50 sounds brought on sleep again. An owl51 in the wood by the little chalk stream would hoot52, patiently wait for the answering call that should come, and then hoot again, and listen again. The low, dry, continuous buzz of an aeroplane engine, more evenly humming than any of ours, droned itself into hearing and softly ascended53 the scale of audibility; overhead, as the enemy passed, was slowly drawn across the sky from east to west a line of momentarily obscured stars, each coming back into sight as the next one was deleted. In the east the low, slow grumbling54 sound of a few guns from fifty miles of front seemed, in its approach to quietude, like the audible breath of a sleeper55. The war was taking its rest.
Some sort of musing56 half-dream about summer heaths, buzzing with bees, was jarred by the big blunted sound, distant and dull, of wooden boxes tumbling down wooden stairs, "off," as they do in a farce57. Of course—that night-bomber unloading on St. Omer, Abbeville, Etaples, some one of the usual marks. But now there was something to wake for. Not a star to be seen. I jumped up and found the mist thick to my armpits, and rising. Oh, good, good! Our men would walk safe as the attacking Germans had walked in the mist of that lovely and fatal morning in March. I slept hard till two o'clock came—time to get up for work. The mist was doing its best; it seemed to fill the whole wide vessel58 of the universe.
III
Ten miles to the east of Amiens a steep-sided ridge59 divides the converging60 rivers of Ancre and Somme. They meet where it sinks, at its western end, into the plain. From the ridge there was, in pre-war days, a beautiful view. On the south the ground fell from your feet abruptly61, a kind of earth cliff, to the north bank of the Somme, about a hundred feet below. Southwards, beyond the river, stretched, as far as eye could see, the expanse of the level Santerre, one of France's best cornlands. South-eastward62 you looked up the Somme valley, mile after mile, towards Bray63 and Péronne—a shining valley of poplars and stream and linked ponds and red-roofed villages among the poplars. But now the Santerre lay untilled, gone back to heath of a faded fawn-grey. The red roofs had been shelled; the Germans possessed64 them; the Germans held the blasted heath, across the river; other Germans held most of the ridge on this side to a mile or so east of the point to which I was posted that morning. English troops were to carry the eastern end of the ridge and the tricky65 low ground between it and the Somme. Australian and Canadian troops were to attack on a broad front, out on the level Santerre, across the river and under our eyes.
But there was no seeing. The mist, in billowy, bolster-like masses, wallowed and rolled about at the touch of light airs; at one moment a figure some thirty yards off could be seen and then a thickened whiteness would rub it out; down the earth cliff we looked into a cauldron of that seething66 milky67 opaqueness68. Of what might go on in that pit of enigma22 the eye could tell nothing; the mind hung on what news might come through the ear. We knew that there was to be no prior bombardment; the men would start with the barrage69 and go for five miles across the Santerre if they could, pushing the enemy off it. The stage was set, the play of plays was about to begin on the broad stage below; only, between our eyes and the boards there was hung a white curtain.
Up the cliff, fumbling70 and muted, came the first burst of the barrage, suggesting, as barrages71 usually do, a race between sounds, a piece bangingly played against time on a keyboard. Now the men would be rising full length above earth and walking out with smoking breath and bejewelled eyebrows72 into the infested73 mist. Then our guns, for an interval74, fell almost silent—first lift of the barrage—a chance for hungry ears to assess the weight of the enemy's answering gunfire. Surely, surely it had not all the volume it had had at Arras and Ypres last year. And then down came our barrage again, like one rifle-bolt banging home, and all thought was again with the friends before whose faces the wall of splashing metal, earth, and flame had just risen and moved on ahead like the pillars of fire and cloud.
Hours passed, bringing the usual changes of sounds in battles. The piece that had started so rapidly on the piano slowed down; the notes spaced themselves out; the first continuous barking of many guns slackened off irregularly into isolated75 barks and groups of barks—just what you hear from a dog whose temper is subsiding76, with occasional returns. That, in itself, told nothing. Troops might only have gained a few hundred yards in the old Flanders way, and then flopped77 down to dig and be murdered. Or—but one kept a tight hand on hope. One had hoped too often since Loos. And then the mist lifted. It rolled right up into the sky in one piece, like a theatre curtain, almost suddenly taking its white quilted thickness away from between our eyes and the vision so much longed for during four years. Beyond the river a miracle—the miracle—had begun. It was going on fast. Remember that all previous advances had gained us little more than freedom to skulk78 up communication trenches79 a mile or two further eastward, if that. But now! Across the level Santerre, which the sun was beginning to fill with a mist-filtered lustre80, two endless columns of British guns, wagons81, and troops were marching steadily82 east, unshelled, over the ground that the Germans had held until dawn.
Nothing like it had ever been seen in the war. Above, on our cliff, we turned and stared at each other. We must have looked rather like Cortes' men agape on their peak. The marvel83 seemed real; the road lay open and dry across the Red Sea. Far off, six thousand yards off in the shining south-east, tanks and cavalry were at work, shifting and gleaming and looking huge on the sky-line of some little rumpled84 fold of the Santerre plateau. Nearer, the glass could make out an enemy battery, captured complete, caught with the leather caps still on the muzzles85 of guns. The British dead on the plain, horses and men, lay scattered86 thinly over wide spaces; scarcely a foundered87 tank could be seen; the ground had turf on it still; it was only speckled with shell-holes, not disembowelled or flayed88. The war had put on a sort of benignity89, coming out gallantly90 on the top of the earth and moving about in the air and the sun; the warm heath, with so few dead upon it, looked almost clement91 and kind, almost gay after the scabrous92 mud wastes and the stink93 of the captured dug-outs of the Salient, piled up to ground-level with corpses95, some feet uppermost, some heads, like fish in a basket, making you think what wonderful numbers there are of mankind. For a moment, the object of all dream and desire seemed to have come; the flaming sword was gone, and the gate of the garden open.
Too late, as you know. We awoke from delight, and remembered. Four years ago, three years ago, even two years ago, a lasting96 repose97 of beatitude might have come with that regaining98 of paradise! Now! The control of our armies, jealously hugged for so long and used, on the whole, to so little purpose, had passed from us, thrown up in a moment of failure, dissension and dread99. While still outnumbered by the enemy we had not won; while on even terms with him we had not won; only under a foreign Commander-in-Chief, and with America's inexhaustible numbers crowding behind to hold up our old arms, had our just cause begun to prevail. And now the marred100 triumph would leave us jaded101 and disillusioned102, divided, half bankrupt; sneerers at lofty endeavour, and yet not the men for the plodding103 of busy and orderly peace; bilious104 with faiths and enthusiasms gone sour in the stomach. That very night I was to hear the old Australian sneer again. The British corps94 on their left, at work in the twisty valley and knucklesome banks of the Somme, had failed to get on quite as fast as they and the Canadian troops on their right. "The Canadians were all right of course, but the Tommies! Well, we might have known!" They had got rid, they chuckingly said, of their own last "Tommy officers" now; they wanted to have it quite clear that in England's war record they were not involved except as our saviours105 from our sorry selves.
IV
There were other days, during the following months of worm-eaten success, when some mirage106 of the greater joys which we had forfeited107 hung for a few moments over the sand. It must be always a strange delight to an infantryman to explore at his ease, in security, ground that to him has been almost as unimaginable as events after death. There is no describing the vesture of enigmatic remoteness enfolding a long-watched enemy line. Tolstoy has tried, but even he does not come up to it. Virgil alone has expressed one sensation of the British overflow108 over Lille and Cambria, Menin (even the Menin Road had an end) and Bruges and Ostend, Le Cateau and Landrecies, Liège and Namur—
Juvat ire et Dorica castra
Desertosque videre locos, litusque relictum.
Hic Dolopum manus, hic s?vus tendebat Achilles.
And then, wherever you went, till the frontier was reached, everyone was your host and your friend; all the relations of strangers to one another had been transfigured into the sum of all kindness and courtesy. In one mining village in Flanders, quitted that day by the Germans, a woman rushed out of a house to give me a lump of bread, thinking that we must all be as hungry as she and her neighbours. Late one night in Brussels, just after the Germans had gone, I was walking with another officer down the chief street of the city, then densely110 crowded with radiant citizens. My friend had a wooden stump111 leg and could not walk very well; and this figure of a khaki-clad man, maimed in the discharge of an Allied112 obligation to Belgium, seemed suddenly and almost simultaneously113 to be seen by the whole of that great crowd in all its symbolic114 value, so that the crowd fell silent and opened out spontaneously along the whole length of the street and my friend had to hobble down the middle of a long avenue of bare-headed men and bowing women.
Finally—last happy thrill of the war—the first stroke of eleven o'clock, on the morning of Armistice115 Day, on the town clock of Mons, only captured that morning; Belgian civilians116 and British soldiers crowding together into the square, shaking each other's hands and singing each other's national anthems117; a little toy-like peal118 of bells in the church contriving119 to tinkle120 out "Tipperary" for our welcome, while our airmen, released from their labours, tumbled and romped121 overhead like boys turning cartwheels with ecstasy.
What a victory it might have been—the real, the Winged Victory, chivalric122, whole and unstained! The bride that our feckless wooing had sought and not won in the generous youth of the war had come to us now: an old woman, or dead, she no longer refused us. We had arrived, like the prince in the poem—
Too late for love, too late for joy,
Too late, too late!
You loitered on the road too long,
You trifled at the gate:
Died without a mate;
The enchanted princess in her tower
Slept, died behind the grate:
Her heart was starving all this while
You made it wait.
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1
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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4
choirs
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| n.教堂的唱诗班( choir的名词复数 )；唱诗队；公开表演的合唱团；（教堂）唱经楼 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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6
acme
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| n.顶点，极点 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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9
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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10
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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moribund
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| adj.即将结束的，垂死的 | |
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raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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13
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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14
momentum
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| n.动力，冲力，势头；动量 | |
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risky
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| adj.有风险的，冒险的 | |
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gore
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| n.凝血，血污；v.（动物）用角撞伤，用牙刺破；缝以补裆；顶 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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18
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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21
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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27
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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29
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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30
astringent
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| adj.止血的，收缩的，涩的；n.收缩剂，止血剂 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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fresco
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| n.壁画；vt.作壁画于 | |
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winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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35
pulsating
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| adj.搏动的，脉冲的v.有节奏地舒张及收缩( pulsate的现在分词 )；跳动；脉动；受（激情）震动 | |
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36
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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37
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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impaling
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| 钉在尖桩上( impale的现在分词 ) | |
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39
blenching
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| v.（因惊吓而）退缩，惊悸( blench的现在分词 )；（使）变白，（使）变苍白 | |
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40
trickles
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| n.细流( trickle的名词复数 )；稀稀疏疏缓慢来往的东西v.滴( trickle的第三人称单数 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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41
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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42
friezes
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| n.（柱顶过梁和挑檐间的）雕带，（墙顶的）饰带( frieze的名词复数 ) | |
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43
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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44
flamboyantly
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| adv.艳丽地、奢华地、绚丽地。 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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47
squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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48
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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51
owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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52
hoot
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| n.鸟叫声，汽车的喇叭声； v.使汽车鸣喇叭 | |
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53
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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55
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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56
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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58
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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converging
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| adj.收敛[缩]的，会聚的，趋同的v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的现在分词 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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bray
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| n.驴叫声, 喇叭声；v.驴叫 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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tricky
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| adj.狡猾的，奸诈的；(工作等)棘手的，微妙的 | |
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seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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67
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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68
opaqueness
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| [化] 不透明性，不透明度 | |
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barrage
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| n.火力网，弹幕 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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71
barrages
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| n.弹幕射击( barrage的名词复数 )；火力网；猛烈炮火；河上的堰坝v.火力攻击（或阻击）( barrage的第三人称单数 )；以密集火力攻击（或阻击） | |
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72
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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73
infested
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| adj.为患的，大批滋生的（常与with搭配）v.害虫、野兽大批出没于( infest的过去式和过去分词 )；遍布于 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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flopped
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| v.（指书、戏剧等）彻底失败( flop的过去式和过去分词 )；（因疲惫而）猛然坐下；（笨拙地、不由自主地或松弛地）移动或落下；砸锅 | |
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skulk
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| v.藏匿；潜行 | |
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trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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83
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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muzzles
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| 枪口( muzzle的名词复数 )； （防止动物咬人的）口套； （四足动物的）鼻口部； （狗）等凸出的鼻子和口 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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foundered
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| v.创始人( founder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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flayed
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| v.痛打( flay的过去式和过去分词 )；把…打得皮开肉绽；剥（通常指动物）的皮；严厉批评 | |
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benignity
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| n.仁慈 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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scabrous
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| adj.有疤的，粗糙的 | |
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stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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100
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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101
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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102
disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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103
plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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104
bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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105
saviours
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| n.救助者( saviour的名词复数 )；救星；救世主；耶稣基督 | |
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106
mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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107
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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109
locus
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| n.中心 | |
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110
densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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111
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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112
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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113
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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114
symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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115
armistice
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| n.休战，停战协定 | |
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116
civilians
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| 平民，百姓( civilian的名词复数 )； 老百姓 | |
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117
anthems
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| n.赞美诗( anthem的名词复数 )；圣歌；赞歌；颂歌 | |
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118
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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119
contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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120
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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121
romped
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| v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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122
chivalric
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| 有武士气概的，有武士风范的 | |
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123
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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