MEANWHILE, the daily — more particularly nightly — round, the common task. Sentry-go, patrols, digging; mud, rain, shrieking1 winds, and occasional snow. It was not till well into April that the nights grew noticeably warmer. Up here on the plateau the March days were mostly like an English March, with bright blue skies and nagging2 winds. The winter barley3 was a foot high, crimson4 buds were forming on the cherry trees (the line here ran through deserted5 orchards6 and vegetable gardens), and if you searched the ditches you could find violets and a kind of wild hyacinth like a poor specimen7 of a bluebell8. Immediately behind the line there ran a wonderful, green, bubbling stream, the first transparent9 water I had seen since coming to the front. One day I set my teeth and crawled into the river to have my first bath in six weeks. It was what you might call a brief bath, for the water was mainly snow-water and not much above freezing-point.
Meanwhile nothing happened, nothing ever happened. The English had got into the habit of saying that this wasn’t a war, it was a bloody10 pantomime. We were hardly under direct fire from the Fascists11. The only danger was from stray bullets, which, as the lines curved forward on either side, came from several directions. All the casualties at this time were from strays. Arthur Clinton got a mysterious bullet that smashed his left shoulder and disabled his arm, permanently13, I am afraid. There was a little shell-fire, but it was extraordinarily14 ineffectual. The scream and crash of the shells was actually looked upon as a mild diversion. The Fascists never dropped their shells on our parapet. A few hundred yards behind us there was a country house, called La Granja, with big farm-buildings, which was used as a store, headquarters, and cook-house for this sector15 of the line. It was this that the Fascist12 gunners were trying for, but they were five or six kilometres away and they never aimed well enough to do more than smash the windows and chip the walls. You were only in danger if you happened to be coming up the road when the firing started, and the shells plunged16 into the fields on either side of you. One learned almost immediately the mysterious art of knowing by the sound of a shell how close it will fall. The shells the Fascists were firing at this period were wretchedly bad. Although they were 150 mm. they only made a crater17 about six feet wide by four deep, and at least one in four failed to explode. There were the usual romantic tales of sabotage18 in the Fascist factories and unexploded shells in which, instead of the charge, there was found a scrap19 of paper saying ‘Red Front’, but I never saw one. The truth was that the shells were hopelessly old; someone picked up a brass20 fuse-cap stamped with the date, and it was 1917. The Fascist guns were of the same make and calibre as our own, and the unexploded shells were often reconditioned and fired back. There was said to be one old shell with a nickname of its own which travelled daily to and fro, never exploding.
At night small patrols used to be sent into no man’s land to lie in ditches near the Fascist lines and listen for sounds (bugle-calls, motor-horns, and so forth) that indicated activity in Huesca. There was a constant come-and-go of Fascist troops, and the numbers could be checked to some extent from listeners’ reports. We always had special orders to report the ringing of church bells. It seemed that the Fascists always heard mass before going into action. In among the fields and orchards there were deserted mud-walled huts which it was safe to explore with a lighted match when you had plugged up the windows. Sometimes you came on valuable pieces of loot such as a hatchet21 or a Fascist water-bottle (better than ours and greatly sought after). You could explore in the daytime as well, but mostly it had to be done crawling on all fours. It was queer to creep about in those empty, fertile fields where everything had been arrested just at the harvest-moment. Last year’s crops had never been touched. The unpruned vines were snaking across the ground, the cobs on the standing22 maize23 had gone as hard as stone, the mangels and sugar-beets were hyper — trophied into huge woody lumps. How the peasants must have cursed both armies! Sometimes parties of men went spud-gathering in no man’s land. About a mile to the right of us, where the lines were closer together, there was a patch of potatoes that was frequented both by the Fascists and ourselves. We went there in the daytime, they only at night, as it was commanded by our machine-guns. One night to our annoyance24 they turned out en masse and cleared up the whole patch. We discovered another patch farther on, where there was practically no cover and you had to lift the potatoes lying on your belly25 — a fatiguing26 job. If their machine-gunners spotted27 you, you had to flatten28 yourself out like a rat when it squirms under a door, with the bullets cutting up the clods a few yards behind you. It seemed worth it at the time. Potatoes were getting very scarce. If you got a sackful you could take them down to the cook-house and swap29 them for a water-bottleful of coffee.
And still nothing happened, nothing ever looked like happening. ‘When are we going to attack? Why don’t we attack?’ were the questions you heard night and day from Spaniard and Englishman alike. When you think what fighting means it is queer that soldiers want to fight, and yet undoubtedly30 they do. In stationary31 warfare32 there are three things that all soldiers long for: a battle, more cigarettes, and a week’s leave. We were somewhat better armed now than before. Each man had a hundred and fifty rounds of ammunition33 instead of fifty, and by degrees we were being issued with bayonets, steel helmets, and a few bombs. There were constant rumours34 of forthcoming battles, which I have since thought were deliberately35 circulated to keep up the spirits of the troops. It did not need much military knowledge to see that there would be no major action on this side of Huesca, at any rate for the time being. The strategic point was the road to Jaca, over on the other side. Later, when the Anarchists37 made their attacks on the Jaca road, our job was to make ‘holding attacks’ and force the Fascists to divert troops from the other side.
During all this time, about six weeks, there was only one action on our part of the front. This was when our Shock Troopers attacked the Manicomio, a disused lunatic asylum38 which the Fascists had converted into a fortress39. There were several hundred refugee Germans serving with the P.O.U.M. They were organized in a special battalion40 called the Batall6n de Cheque, and from a military point of view they were on quite a different level from the rest of the militia41 — indeed, were more like soldiers than anyone I saw in Spain, except the Assault Guards and some of the International Column. The attack was mucked up, as usual. How many operations in this war, on the Government side, were not mucked up, I wonder? The Shock Troops took the Manicomio by storm, but the troops, of I forget which militia, who were to support them by seizing the neighbouring hill that commanded the Manicomio, were badly let down. The captain who led them was one of those Regular Army officers of doubtful loyalty43 whom the Government persisted in employing. Either from fright or treachery he warned the Fascists by flinging a bomb when they were two hundred yards away. I am glad to say his men shot him dead on the spot. But the surprise-attack was no surprise, and the militiamen were mown down by heavy fire and driven off the hill, and at nightfall the Shock Troops had to abandon the Manicomio. Through the night the ambulances filed down the abominable44 road to Sietamo, killing45 the badly wounded with their joltings.
All of us were lousy by this time; though still cold it was warm enough for that. I have had a big experience of body vermin of various kinds, and for sheer beastliness the louse beats everything I have encountered. Other insects, mosquitoes for instance, make you suffer more, but at least they aren’t resident vermin. The human louse somewhat resembles a tiny lobster46, and he lives chiefly in your trousers. Short of burning all your clothes there is no known way of getting rid of him. Down the seams of your trousers he lays his glittering white eggs, like tiny grains of rice, which hatch out and breed families of their own at horrible speed. I think the pacifists might find it helpful to illustrate47 their pamphlets with enlarged photographs of lice. Glory of war, indeed! In war all soldiers are lousy, at least when it is warm enough. The men who fought at Verdun, at Waterloo, at Flodden, at Senlac, at Thermopylae — every one of them had lice crawling over his testicles. We kept the brutes48 down to some extent by burning out the eggs and by bathing as often as we could face it. Nothing short of lice could have driven me into that ice-cold river.
Everything was running short — boots, clothes, tobacco, soap, candles, matches, olive oil. Our uniforms were dropping to pieces, and many of the men had no boots, only rope-soled sandals. You came on piles of worn-out boots everywhere. Once we kept a dug-out fire burning for two days mainly with boots, which are not bad fuel. By this time my wife was in Barcelona and used to send me tea, chocolate, and even cigars when such things were procurable49, but even in Barcelona everything was running short, especially tobacco. The tea was a godsend, though we had no milk and seldom any sugar. Parcels were constantly being sent from England to men in the contingent50 but they never arrived; food, clothes, cigarettes — everything was either refused by the Post Office or seized in France. Curiously52 enough, the only firm that succeeded in sending packets of tea — even, on one memorable53 occasion, a tin of biscuits — to my wife was the Army and Navy Stores. Poor old Army and Navy! They did their duty nobly, but perhaps they might have felt happier if the stuff had been going to Franco’s side of the barricade54. The shortage of tobacco was the worst of all. At the beginning we had been issued with a packet of cigarettes a day, then it got down to eight cigarettes a day, then to five. Finally there were ten deadly days when there was no issue of tobacco at all. For the first time, in Spain, I saw something that you see every day in London — people picking up fag-ends.
Towards the end of March I got a poisoned hand that had to be lanced and put in a sling55. I had to go into hospital, but it was not worth sending me to Sietamo for such a petty injury, so I stayed in the so — called hospital at Monflorite, which was merely a casualty clearing station. I was there ten days, part of the time in bed. The practicantes (hospital assistants) stole practically every valuable object I possessed56, including my camera and all my photographs. At the front everyone stole, it was the inevitable57 effect of shortage, but the hospital people were always the worst. Later, in the hospital at Barcelona, an American who had come to join the International Column on a ship that was torpedoed59 by an Italian submarine, told me how he was carried ashore60 wounded, and how, even as they lifted him into the ambulance, the stretcher-bearers pinched his wrist-watch.
While my arm was in the sling I spent several blissful days wandering about the country-side. Monflorite was the usual huddle61 of mud and stone houses, with narrow tortuous62 alleys63 that had been churned by lorries till they looked like the craters64 of the moon. The church had been badly knocked about but was used as a military store. In the whole neighbourhood there were only two farm-houses of any size, Torre Lorenzo and Torre Fabian, and only two really large buildings, obviously the houses of the landowners who had once lorded it over the countryside; you could see their wealth reflected in the miserable65 huts of the peasants. Just behind the river, close to the front line, there was an enormous flour-mill with a country-house attached to it. It seemed shameful66 to see the huge costly67 machine rusting68 useless and the wooden flour-chutes torn down for firewood. Later on, to get firewood for the troops farther back, parties of men were sent in lorries to wreck69 the place systematically70. They used to smash the floorboards of a room by bursting a hand-grenade in it. La Granja, our store and cook-house, had possibly at one time been a convent. It had huge courtyards and out-houses, covering an acre or more, with stabling for thirty or forty horses. The country-houses in that part of Spain are of no interest architecturally, but their farm-buildings, of lime-washed stone with round arches and magnificent roof-beams, are noble places, built on a plan that has probably not altered for centuries. Sometimes it gave you a sneaking71 sympathy with the Fascist ex-owners to see the way the militia treated the buildings they had seized. In La Granja every room that was not in use had been turned into a latrine — a frightful72 shambles73 of smashed furniture and excrement74. The little church that adjoined it, its walls perforated by shell-holes, had its floor inches deep in dung. In the great courtyard where the cooks ladled out the rations42 the litter of rusty75 tins, mud, mule76 dung, and decaying food was revolting. It gave point to the old army song:
There are rats, rats,
Rats as big as cats,
In the quartermaster’s store!
The ones at La Granja itself really were as big as cats, or nearly; great bloated brutes that waddled77 over the beds of muck, too impudent78 even to run away unless you shot at them.
Spring was really here at last. The blue in the sky was softer, the air grew suddenly balmy. The frogs were mating noisily in the ditches. Round the drinking-pool that served for the village mules79 I found exquisite80 green frogs the size of a penny, so brilliant that the young grass looked dull beside them. Peasant lads went out with buckets hunting for snails81, which they roasted alive on sheets of tin. As soon as the weather improved the peasants had turned out for the spring ploughing. It is typical of the utter vagueness in which the Spanish agrarian82 revolution is wrapped that I could not even discover for certain whether the land here was collectivized or whether the peasants had simply divided it up among themselves. I fancy that in theory it was collectivized, this being P.O.U.M. and Anarchist36 territory. At any rate the landowners were gone, the fields were being cultivated, and people seemed satisfied. The friendliness83 of the peasants towards ourselves never ceased to astonish me. To some of the older ones the war must have seemed meaningless, visibly it produced a shortage of everything and a dismal84 dull life for everybody, and at the best of times peasants hate having troops quartered upon them. Yet they were invariably friendly — I suppose reflecting that, however intolerable we might be in other ways, we did stand between them and their one-time landlords. Civil war is a queer thing. Huesca was not five miles away, it was these people’s market town, all of them had relatives there, every week of their lives they had gone there to sell their poultry85 and vegetables. And now for eight months an impenetrable barrier of barbed wire and machine-guns had lain between. Occasionally it slipped their memory. Once I was talking to an old woman who was carrying one of those tiny iron lamps in which the Spaniards bum86 olive oil. ‘Where can I buy a lamp like that?’ I said.’ In Huesca,’ she said without thinking, and then we both laughed. The village girls were splendid vivid creatures with coal-black hair, a swinging walk, and a straightforward87, man-to-man demeanour which was probably a by-product88 of the revolution.
Men in ragged89 blue shirts and black corduroy breeches, with broad — brimmed straw hats, were ploughing the fields behind teams of mules with rhythmically90 flopping91 ears. Their ploughs were wretched things, only stirring the soil, not cutting anything we should regard as a furrow92. All the agricultural implements93 were pitifully antiquated94, everything being governed by the expensiveness of metal. A broken ploughshare, for instance, was patched, and then patched again, till sometimes it was mainly patches. Rakes and pitchforks were made of wood. Spades, among a people who seldom possessed boots, were unknown; they did their digging with a clumsy hoe like those used in India. There was a kind of harrow that took one straight back to the later Stone Age. It was made of boards joined together, to about the size of a kitchen table; in the boards hundreds of holes were morticed, and into each hole was jammed a piece of flint which had been chipped into shape exactly as men used to chip them ten thousand years ago. I remember my feelings almost of horror when I first came upon one of these things in a derelict hut in no man’s land. I had to puzzle over it for a long while before grasping that it was a harrow. It made me sick to think of the work that must go into the making of such a thing, and the poverty that was obliged to use flint in place of steel. I have felt more kindly95 towards industrialism ever since. But in the village there were two up-to-date farm tractors, no doubt seized from some big landowner’s estate.
Once or twice I wandered out to the little walled graveyard96 that stood a mile or so from the village. The dead from the front were normally sent to Sietamo; these were the village dead. It was queerly different from an English graveyard. No reverence97 for the dead here! Everything overgrown with bushes and coarse grass, human bones littered everywhere. But the really surprising thing was the almost complete lack of religious inscriptions98 on the gravestones, though they all dated from before the revolution. Only once, I think, I saw the ‘Pray for the Soul of So-and-So’ which is usual on Catholic graves. Most of the inscriptions were purely99 secular100, with ludicrous poems about the virtues101 of the deceased. On perhaps one grave in four or five there was a small cross or a perfunctory reference to Heaven; this had usually been chipped off by some industrious102 atheist103 with a chisel104.
It struck me that the people in this part of Spain must be genuinely without religious feeling — religious feeling, I mean, in the orthodox sense. It is curious that all the time I was in Spain I never once saw a person cross himself; yet you would think such a movement would become instinctive105, revolution or no revolution. Obviously the Spanish Church will come back (as the saying goes, night and the Jesuits always return), but there is no doubt that at the outbreak of the revolution it collapsed106 and was smashed up to an extent that would be unthinkable even for the moribund107 C. of E. in like circumstances. To the Spanish people, at any rate in Catalonia and Aragon, the Church was a racket pure and simple. And possibly Christian108 belief was replaced to some extent by Anarchism, whose influence is widely spread and which undoubtedly has a religious tinge51.
It was the day I came back from hospital that we advanced the line to what was really its proper position, about a thousand yards forward, along the little stream that lay a couple of hundred yards in front of the Fascist line. This operation ought to have been carried out months earlier. The point of doing it now was that the Anarchists were attacking on theJaca road, and to advance on this side made them divert troops to face us.
We were sixty or seventy hours without sleep, and my memories go down into a sort of blue, or rather a series of pictures. Listening-duty in no man’s land, a hundred yards from the Casa Francesa, a fortified109 farm-house which was part of the Fascist line. Seven hours lying in a horrible marsh110, in reedy-smelling water into which one’s body subsided111 gradually deeper and deeper: the reedy smell, the numbing112 cold, the stars immovable in the black sky, the harsh croaking113 of the frogs. Though this was April it was the coldest night that I remember in Spain. Only a hundred yards behind us the working-parties were hard at it, but there was utter silence except for the chorus of the frogs. Just once during the night I heard a sound — the familiar noise of a sand-bag being flattened114 with a spade. It is queer how, just now and again, Spaniards can carry out a brilliant feat115 of organization. The whole move was beautifully planned. In seven hours six hundred men constructed twelve hundred metres of trench116 and parapet, at distances of from a hundred and fifty to three hundred yards from the Fascist line, and all so silently that the Fascists heard nothing, and during the night there was only one casualty. There were more next day, of course. Every man had his job assigned to him, even to the cook-house orderlies who suddenly arrived when the work was done with buckets of wine laced with brandy.
And then the dawn coming up and the Fascists suddenly discovering that we were there. The square white block of the Casa Francesa, though it was two hundred yards away, seemed to tower over us, and the machine — guns in its sandbagged upper windows seemed to be pointing straight down into the trench. We all stood gaping117 at it, wondering why the Fascists didn’t see us. Then a vicious swirl118 of bullets, and everyone had flung himself on his knees and was frantically119 digging, deepening the trench and scooping120 out small shelters in the side. My arm was still in bandages, I could not dig, and I spent most of that day reading a detective story — The Missing Money-lender its name was. I don’t remember the plot of it, but I remember very clearly the feeling of sitting there reading it; the dampish clay of the trench bottom underneath121 me, the constant shifting of my legs out of the way as men hurried stopping down the trench, the crack-crack-crack of bullets a foot or two overhead. Thomas Parker got a bullet through the top of his thigh122, which, as he said, was nearer to being a D.S.O. than he cared about. Casualties were happening all along the line, but nothing to what there would have been if they had caught us on the move during the night. A deserter told us afterwards that five Fascist sentries123 were shot for negligence124. Even now they could have massacred us if they had had the initiative to bring up a few mortars125. It was an awkward job getting the wounded down the narrow, crowded trench. I saw one poor devil, his breeches dark with blood, flung out of his stretcher and gasping126 in agony. One had to carry wounded men a long distance, a mile or more, for even when a road existed the ambulances never came very near the front line. If they came too near the Fascists had a habit of shelling them — justifiably127, for in modern war no one scruples128 to use an ambulance for carrying ammunition.
And then, next night, waiting at Torre Fabian for an attack that was called off at the last moment by wireless129. In the barn where we waited the floor was a thin layer of chaff130 over deep beds of bones, human bones and cows’ bones mixed up, and the place was alive with rats. The filthy131 brutes came swarming132 out of the ground on every side. If there is one thing I hate more than another it is a rat running over me in the darkness. However, I had the satisfaction of catching133 one of them a good punch that sent him flying.
And then waiting fifty or sixty yards from the Fascist parapet for the order to attack. A long line of men crouching134 in an irrigation ditch with their bayonets peeping over the edge and the whites of their eyes shining through the darkness. Kopp and Benjamin squatting135 behind us with a man who had a wireless receiving-box strapped136 to his shoulders. On the western horizon rosy137 gun-flashes followed at intervals138 of several seconds by enormous explosions. And then a pip-pip-pip noise from the wireless and the whispered order that we were to get out of it while the going was good. We did so, but not quickly enough. Twelve wretched children of the J.C.I. (the Youth League of the P.O.U.M., corresponding to the J.S.U. of the P.S.U.C.) who had been posted only about forty yards from the Fascist parapet, were caught by the dawn and unable to escape. All day they had to lie there, with only tufts of grass for cover, the Fascists shooting at them every time they moved. By nightfall seven were dead, then the other five managed to creep away in the darkness.
And then, for many mornings to follow, the sound of the Anarchist attacks on the other side of Huesca. Always the same sound. Suddenly, at some time in the small hours, the opening crash of several score bombs bursting simultaneously139 — even from miles away a diabolical140, rending141 crash — and then the unbroken roar of massed rifles and machine-guns, a heavy rolling sound curiously similar to the roll of drums. By degrees the firing would spread all round the lines that encircled Huesca, and we would stumble out into the trench to lean sleepily against the parapet while a ragged meaningless fire swept overhead.
In the daytime the guns thundered fitfully. Torre Fabian, now our cookhouse, was shelled and partially142 destroyed. It is curious that when you are watching artillery-fire from a safe distance you always want the gunner to hit his mark, even though the mark contains your dinner and some of your comrades. The Fascists were shooting well that morning; perhaps there were German gunners on the job. They bracketed neatly143 on Torre Fabian. One shell beyond it, one shell short of it, then whizz-BOOM’ Burst rafters leaping upwards144 and a sheet of uralite skimming down the air like a nicked playing-card. The next shell took off a corner of a building as neatly as a giant might do it with a knife. But the cooks produced dinner on time — a memorable feat.
As the days went on the unseen but audible guns began each to assume a distinct personality. There were the two batteries of Russian 75-mm. guns which fired from close in our rear and which somehow evoked145 in my mind the picture of a fat man hitting a golf-ball. These were the first Russian guns I had seen — or heard, rather. They had a low trajectory146 and a very high velocity147, so that you heard the cartridge148 explosion, the whizz, and the shell-burst almost simultaneously. Behind Monflorite were two very heavy guns which fired a few times a day, with a deep, muffled149 roar that was like the baying of distant chained-up monsters. Up at Mount Aragon, the medieval fortress which the Government troops had stormed last year (the first time in its history, it was said), and which guarded one of the approaches to Huesca, there was a heavy gun which must have dated well back into the nineteenth century. Its great shells whistled over so slowly that you felt certain you could run beside them and keep up with them. A shell from this gun sounded like nothing so much as a man riding along on a bicycle and whistling. The trench-mortars, small though they were, made the most evil sound of all. Their shells are really a kind of winged torpedo58, shaped like the darts150 thrown in public-houses and about the size of a quart bottle; they go off with a devilish metallic151 crash, as of some monstrous152 globe of brittle153 steel being shattered on an anvil154. Sometimes our aeroplanes flew over and let loose the aerial torpedoes155 whose tremendous echoing roar makes the earth tremble even at two miles’ distance. The shell-bursts from the Fascist anti — aircraft guns dotted the sky like cloudlets in a bad water-colour, but I never saw them get within a thousand yards of an aeroplane. When an aeroplane swoops156 down and uses its machine-gun the sound, from below, is like the fluttering of wings.
On our part of the line not much was happening. Two hundred yards to the right of us, where the Fascists were on higher ground, their snipers picked off a few of our comrades. Two hundred yards to the left, at the bridge over the stream, a sort of duel157 was going on between the Fascist mortars and the men who were building a concrete barricade across the bridge. The evil little shells whizzed over, zwing-crash! zwing-crash!, making a doubly diabolical noise when they landed on the asphalt road. A hundred yards away you could stand in perfect safety and watch the columns of earth and black smoke leaping into the air like magic trees. The poor devils round the bridge spent much of the daytime cowering158 in the little man-holes they had scooped159 in the side of the trench. But there were less casualties than might have been expected, and the barricade rose steadily160, a wall of concrete two feet thick, with embrasures for two machine-guns and a small field gun. The concrete was being reinforced with old bedsteads, which apparently161 was the only iron that could be found for the purpose.
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shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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nagging
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| adj.唠叨的，挑剔的；使人不得安宁的v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的现在分词 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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bluebell
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| n.风铃草 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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fascists
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| n.法西斯主义的支持者( fascist的名词复数 ) | |
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fascist
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| adj.法西斯主义的；法西斯党的；n.法西斯主义者，法西斯分子 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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sector
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| n.部门，部分；防御地段，防区；扇形 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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crater
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| n.火山口，弹坑 | |
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sabotage
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| n.怠工，破坏活动，破坏；v.从事破坏活动，妨害，破坏 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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hatchet
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standing
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maize
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| n.玉米 | |
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24
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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25
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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26
fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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27
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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28
flatten
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| v.把．．．弄平，使倒伏；使(漆等)失去光泽 | |
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29
swap
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| n.交换；vt.交换，用...作交易 | |
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30
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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31
stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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32
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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33
ammunition
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| n.军火，弹药 | |
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34
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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35
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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36
anarchist
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| n.无政府主义者 | |
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37
anarchists
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| 无政府主义者( anarchist的名词复数 ) | |
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38
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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39
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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40
battalion
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| n.营；部队；大队(的人) | |
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41
militia
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| n.民兵，民兵组织 | |
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42
rations
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| 定量( ration的名词复数 )； 配给量； 正常量； 合理的量 | |
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43
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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44
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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45
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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46
lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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47
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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48
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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49
procurable
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| adj.可得到的，得手的 | |
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50
contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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51
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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52
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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53
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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54
barricade
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| n.路障，栅栏，障碍；vt.设路障挡住 | |
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55
sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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56
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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57
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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58
torpedo
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| n.水雷，地雷；v.用鱼雷破坏 | |
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59
torpedoed
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| 用鱼雷袭击（torpedo的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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60
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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61
huddle
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| vi.挤作一团；蜷缩；vt.聚集；n.挤在一起的人 | |
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62
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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63
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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64
craters
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| n.火山口( crater的名词复数 )；弹坑等 | |
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65
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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66
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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67
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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68
rusting
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| n.生锈v.（使）生锈( rust的现在分词 ) | |
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69
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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70
systematically
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| adv.有系统地 | |
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71
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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72
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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73
shambles
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| n.混乱之处；废墟 | |
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74
excrement
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| n.排泄物，粪便 | |
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75
rusty
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|
| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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76
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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77
waddled
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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79
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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80
exquisite
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|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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81
snails
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| n.蜗牛；迟钝的人；蜗牛( snail的名词复数 ) | |
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82
agrarian
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|
| adj.土地的，农村的，农业的 | |
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83
friendliness
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|
| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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84
dismal
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|
| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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85
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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86
bum
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|
| n.臀部；流浪汉，乞丐；vt.乞求，乞讨 | |
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87
straightforward
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|
| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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88
by-product
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| n.副产品，附带产生的结果 | |
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89
ragged
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|
| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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90
rhythmically
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|
| adv.有节奏地 | |
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91
flopping
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| n.贬调v.（指书、戏剧等）彻底失败( flop的现在分词 )；（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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92
furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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93
implements
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|
| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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94
antiquated
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|
| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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95
kindly
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|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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96
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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97
reverence
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|
| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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98
inscriptions
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|
| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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99
purely
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|
| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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100
secular
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|
| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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101
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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102
industrious
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|
| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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103
atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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104
chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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105
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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106
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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107
moribund
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|
| adj.即将结束的，垂死的 | |
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108
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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109
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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110
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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111
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；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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112
numbing
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|
| adj.使麻木的，使失去感觉的v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的现在分词 ) | |
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113
croaking
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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114
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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115
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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116
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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117
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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118
swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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119
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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120
scooping
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| n.捞球v.抢先报道( scoop的现在分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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121
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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122
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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123
sentries
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| 哨兵，步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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124
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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125
mortars
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| n.迫击炮( mortar的名词复数 )；砂浆；房产；研钵 | |
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126
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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127
justifiably
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| adv.无可非议地 | |
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128
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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129
wireless
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| adj.无线的；n.无线电 | |
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130
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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131
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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132
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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133
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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134
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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135
squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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136
strapped
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|
| adj.用皮带捆住的，用皮带装饰的；身无分文的；缺钱；手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词)；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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137
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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138
intervals
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|
| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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139
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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140
diabolical
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|
| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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141
rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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142
partially
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|
| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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143
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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144
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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145
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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146
trajectory
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| n.弹道，轨道 | |
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147
velocity
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| n.速度，速率 | |
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148
cartridge
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| n.弹壳，弹药筒；(装磁带等的)盒子 | |
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149
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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150
darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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151
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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152
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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153
brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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154
anvil
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| n.铁钻 | |
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155
torpedoes
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| 鱼雷( torpedo的名词复数 )； 油井爆破筒； 刺客； 掼炮 | |
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156
swoops
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| 猛扑，突然下降( swoop的名词复数 ) | |
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157
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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158
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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159
scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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160
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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161
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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