"The wages of sin and a soldier is death."—Trench1 Proverb.
For long I had looked on Loos from a distance, had seen the red-brick houses huddled2 together brooding under the shade of the massive Twin Towers, the giant sentinels of the German stronghold. Between me and the village lurked3 a thousand rifles and death-dealing maxims6; out in the open no understanding could preserve a man from annihilation, luck alone could save him.
On September 25th I lived in the village. By night a ruined village has a certain character of its own, the demolition8 of war seems to give each broken wall a consciousness of dignity and worth; the moonlight ripples9 over the chimneys, and sheaves of shadow lurk4 in every nook and corner. But by day, with its broken, jerry-built houses, the village has no relieving features, it is merely a heap of broken bricks, rubble11 and mud. Some[104] day, when ivy12 and lichen13 grow up the walls and cover green the litter that was Loos, a quaint14, historical air may be given to the scene, but now it showed nothing but a depressing sameness of latchless doors, hingeless shutters15, destruction and decay. Gone was all the fascinating, pathetic melancholy16 of the night when we took possession, but such might be expected: the dead is out of keeping with the day.
I was deep in thought as I stood at the door of the dressing17-station, the first in Loos, and at the moment, the only one. The second German trench, the trench that was the enemy's at dawn, ran across the bottom of the street, and our boys were busy there heaping sandbags on the parapet. A dozen men with loaded rifles stood in the dressing-station on guard, and watchful18 eyes scanned the streets, looking for the enemy who were still in hiding in the cellars or sniping from the upper stories of houses untouched by shell-fire. Down in our cellar the wounded and dying lay: by night, if they lived till then, we would carry them across the open to the dressing-station of Maroc. To venture across now, when the big guns chorused a fanfare19 of fury on the levels, would have been madness.
I went to the door and looked up the street; it was totally deserted20; a dead mule[105] and several khaki-clad figures lay on the pavement, and vicious bullets kicked up showers of sparks on the cobblestones. I could not tell where they were fired from.... A voice called my name and I turned round to see a head peep over the trench where it crossed the road. My mate, Bill Teake, was speaking.
"Come 'ere!" he called. "There's some doin's goin' to take place."
I rushed across the open road where a machine gun from a hill on the right was sending its messages with shrewish persistence21, and tumbled into the trench at my mate's side.
"What are the doings?" I asked.
"The word 'as been passed along that a German observation balloon is going up over Lens an' we're goin' to shell it," said Bill.
"I can't see the blurry22 thing nohow," he added.
I looked towards Lens, and saw the town pencilled reddish in the morning light with several defiant23 chimney stacks standing7 in air. One of these was smoking, which showed that the enemy was still working it.
I saw the balloon rise over the town. It was a massive banana-like construction with ends pointing downwards24, and it climbed slowly up the heavens. At that moment[106] our gunners greeted it with a salvo of shrapnel and struck it, as far as I could judge.
It wriggled25 for a moment, like a big feather caught in a drift of air, then disappeared with startling suddenness.
"A neat shot," I said to Bill, who was now engaged on the task of looking for the snappy maxim5 shrew that tapped impatiently on the sandbagged parapet.
"I think it's up there," he said, pointing to the crest27 where three or four red-tiled houses snuggled in the cover of a spinney. "It's in one of them big 'ouses, bet yer. If I find it I'll get the artillery28 to blow the place to blazes!" he concluded, with an air of finality.
I went back to the dressing-station and found the men on guard in a state of tense excitement. They had seen a German cross the street two hundred yards up, and a red-haired youth, Ginger29 Turley, who had fired at the man, vowed30 that he had hit him.
"I saw 'im fall," said Ginger. "Then 'e crawled into a 'ouse on 'ands and knees."
"'E was only shammin'," said the corporal of the guard. "Nobody can be up to these 'ere Allemongs."
"I 'it 'im," said Ginger heatedly. "Couldn't miss a man at two 'undred and me gettin' proficiency31 pay for good shootin' at S'nalbans (St. Albans)."
[107]
A man at the door suddenly uttered a loud yell.
"Get yer 'ipes," he yelled. "Quick! Grease out of it and get into the scrap32. There's 'undreds of 'em up the streets. Come on! Come out of it! We'll give the swine socks!"
He rushed into the street, raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired two rounds. Then he raced up the street shouting, with the guard following. I looked out.
The men in khaki were rushing on a mob of some fifty or sixty Germans who advanced to meet them with trembling arms raised over their heads, signifying in their manner that they wished to surrender. I had seen many Germans surrender that morning and always noticed that their uplifted arms shook as if stricken with palsy. I suppose they feared what might befall them when they fell into our hands.
With hands still in air and escorted by our boys they filed past the door of the dressing-station. All but one man, who was wounded in the jaw33.
"This is a case for you, Pat," said the corporal of the guard, and beckoned34 to the wounded German to come indoors.
He was an ungainly man, and his clothes clung to his body like rags to a scarecrow. His tunic35 was ripped in several places, and[108] a mountain of Loos mud clung to his trousers. His face was an interesting one, his eyes, blue and frank, seemed full of preoccupation that put death out of reckoning.
"Sprechen Anglais?" I asked, floundering in the mud of Franco-Germaine interrogation. He shook his head; the bullet had blown away part of the man's jaw and he could not speak.
I dressed his wound in silence, an ugly, ghastly wound it looked, one that he would hardly recover from. As I worked with the bandages he brought out a little mirror, gazed for a moment at his face in the glass, and shook his head sadly. He put the mirror back in his pocket, but after a second he drew it out again and made a second inspection37 of his wound.
The dressing done, I inquired by signs if he wanted to sleep; there was still some room in the cellar. He pointed39 his finger at his tunic over the breast and I saw a hole there that looked as if made by a red-hot poker40. I cut the clothes off the man with my scissors and discovered that the bullet which went through the man's jaw had also gone through his chest. He was bleeding freely at the back near the spine41 and in front over the heart.... The man brought out his mirror again, and, standing with his back to a shattered looking-glass that still[109] remained in the building, he examined his wound after the manner of a barber who shows his customer the back of his head by use of a mirror.... Again the German shook his head sadly. I felt sorry for the man. My stock of bandages had run short, and Ginger Turley, who had received a parcel of underclothing a few days before, brought out a new shirt from his haversack, and tearing it into strips, he handed me sufficient cloth for a bandage.
"Poor bloke!" muttered Turley, blushing a little as if ashamed of the kind action. "I suppose it was my shot, too. 'E must be the feller that went crawlin' into the buildin'."
"Not necessarily," I said, hoping to comfort Ginger.
"It was my shot that did it, sure enough," Ginger persisted. "I couldn't miss at two 'undred yards, not if I tried."
One of the men was looking at a little book, somewhat similar to the pay-book we carry on active service, which fell from the German's pocket.
"Bavarian!" read the man with the book, and fixed42 a look of interrogation on the wounded man, who nodded.
"Musician?" asked the man, who divined that certain German words stated that the Bavarian was a musician in civil life.
[110]
A sad look crept into the prisoner's eyes. He raised his hands and held them a little distance from his lips and moved his fingers rapidly; then he curved his left arm and drew his right slowly backward and forward across in front of his body.
We understood; he played the flute43 and violin. Ginger Turley loves ragtime44 and is a master of the mouth-organ; and now having met a brother artist in such a woeful plight45, Ginger's feelings overcame him, and two tears gathered in his eyes.
"I wish I wasn't such a good shot," he muttered.
We wrapped the German up in a few rags, and since he wanted to follow his comrades, who left under escort, we allowed him to go. Ten minutes later, Bill Teake poked46 his little white potato of a nose round the door.
"I've found 'im out," he said, and his voice was full of enthusiasm.
"Who have you found out?" I asked.
"That bloomin' machine gun," Bill answered. "I saw a little puff47 of smoke at one of the winders of a 'ouse up in the spinney. I kept my eye on that 'ere winder. Ev'ry time I seed a puff of smoke, over comes a bullet. I told the officer, and he 'phones down to the artillery. There's goin' to be some doin's. Come on, Pat, and see the fun."
It was too good to miss. Both of us[111] scurried48 across the road and took up a position in the trench from which we could get a good view of the spinney.
"That 'ouse there," said Bill, pointing to the red-brick building bordering a slag-heap known as "The Double Crassier" which tailed to a thin point near the village of Maroc. "There! see at the winder on the left a puff of smoke."
A bullet hit the sandbag at my side. I looked at the house indicated by Bill and saw a wisp of pale smoke trail up from one of the lower windows towards the roof.
"The machine gun's there, sure enough," I said.
Then a bigger gun spoke49; a shell whizzed through the air and raised a cloud of black dust from the rim50 of the slag-heap.
"More to the left, you bounders, more to the left!" yelled Bill.
He could not have been more intent on the work if he were the gunner engaged upon the task of demolition.
The second shot crept nearer and a shrub51 uprooted52 whirled in air.
"That's the ticket!" yelled Bill, clapping his hands. "Come, gunner, get the bounder next time!"
The gunner got him with the next shot which struck the building fair in the centre and smashed it to pieces.
[112]
"That was a damned good one," said Bill approvingly. "The bloomin' gun is out of action now for the duration of war. Have you seen that bloke?"
Bill Teake pointed at a dead German who lay on the crest of the parados, his hands doubled under him, and his jaw bound with a bloodstained dressing.
"He just got killed a minute ago," said Bill. "He jumped across the trench when the machine gun copped 'im and 'e went down flop53!"
"I've just dressed his wounds," I said.
"He'll need no dressin' now," said Bill, and added compassionately54, "Poor devil! S'pose 'e 's 'ad some one as cared for 'im."
I thought of home and hoped to send a letter along to Maroc with a wounded man presently. From there letters would be forwarded. I had a lead pencil in my pocket, but I had no envelope.
"I'll give you a half-franc for a green envelope," I said, and Bill Teake took from his pocket the green envelope, which needed no regimental censure55, but was liable to examination at the Base.
"'Arf-franc and five fags," he said, speaking with the studied indifference56 of a fishwife making a bargain.
"Half a franc and two fags," I answered.
"'Arf a franc and four fags," he said.
[113]
"Three fags," I ventured.
"Done," said Bill, and added, "I've now sold the bloomin' line of communication between myself and my ole man for a few coppers57 and three meesly fags."
"What's your old man's profession, Bill?" I asked.
"'Is wot?"
"His trade?"
"Yer don't know my ole man, Pat?" he inquired. "Everybody knows 'im. 'E 'as as good a reputation as old Times. Yer must 'ave seen 'im in the Strand58 wiv 'is shiny buttons, burnished59 like gold in a jooler's winder, carryin' a board wiv 'Globe Metal Polish' on it."
"Oh!" I said with a laugh.
"But 'e's a devil for 'is suds 'e is——"
"What are suds?" I asked.
"Beer," said Bill. "'E can 'old more'n any man in Lunnon, more'n the chucker-out at 'The Cat and Mustard Pot' boozer in W—— Road even. Yer should see the chucker-out an' my ole man comin' 'ome on Saturday night. They keep themselves steady by rollin' in opposite directions."
"Men with good reputations don't roll home inebriated," I said. "Excessive alcoholic60 dissipation is utterly61 repugnant to dignified62 humanity."
"Wot!"
[114]
"Is your father a churchgoer?" I asked.
"Not 'im," said Bill. "'E don't believe that one can go to 'eaven by climbin' up a church steeple. 'E's a good man, that's wot 'e is. 'E works 'ard when 'e's workin', 'e can use 'is fives wiv anyone, 'e can take a drink or leave it, but 'e prefers takin' it. Nobody can take a rise out o' 'im fer 'e knows 'is place, an' that's more'n some people do."
"Bill, did you kill any Germans this morning?" I asked.
"Maybe I did," Bill answered, "and maybe I didn't. I saw one bloke, an Allemong, in the front trench laughin' like 'ell. 'I'll make yer laugh,' I said to 'im, and shoved my bayonet at 'is bread basket. Then I seed 'is foot; it was right off at the ankle. I left 'im alone. After that I 'ad a barney. I was goin' round a traverse and right in front of me was a Boche, eight foot 'igh or more. Oh! 'e 'ad a bayonet as long as 'imself, and a beard as long as 'is bayonet."
"What did you do?"
"Oh! I retreated," said Bill. "Then I met four of the Jocks, they 'ad bombs. I told them wot I seen an' they went up with me to the place. The Boche saw us and 'e rushed inter36 a dug-out. One of the Jocks threw a bomb, and bang!——"
"Have you seen Kore?" I asked.
[115]
"No, I didn't see 'im at all," Bill answered. "I was mad for a while. Then I saw a lot of Alleymongs rush into a dug-out. 'Gorblimey' I said to the Jocks, 'we'll give 'em 'ell,' and I caught 'old of a German bomb, one o' them kind where you pull the string out and this sets the fuse goin'. I coiled the string round my fingers and pulled. But I couldn't loosen the string. It was a go! I 'eld out my arm with the bomb 'angin'. 'Take it off!' I yelled to the Jocks. Yer should see them run off. There was no good in me runnin'. Blimey! I didn't 'arf feel bad. Talk about a cold sweat; I sweated icicles! And there was the damned bomb 'angin' from my 'and and me thinkin' it was goin' to burst. But it didn't; I 'adn't pulled the string out far enough.
"And that's Loos," he went on, standing on the fire-step and looking up the road. "It's bashed about a lot. There's 'ardly a 'ouse standin'. And that's the Tower Bridge," he added, looking fixedly63 at the Twin Towers that stood scarred but unbroken over Loos coal mine.
"There was a sniper up there this mornin'," he told me. "'E didn't 'arf cause some trouble. Knocked out dozens of our fellers. 'E was brought down at last by a bomb."
He laughed as he spoke, then became silent.[116] For fully64 five minutes there was not a word spoken.
I approached the parapet stealthily and looked up the street of Loos, a solemn, shell-scarred, mysterious street where the dead lay amidst the broken tiles. Were all those brown bundles dead men? Some of them maybe were still dying; clutching at life with vicious energy. A bundle lay near me, a soldier in khaki with his hat gone. I could see his close, compact, shiny curls which seemed to have been glued on to his skull65. Clambering up the parapet I reached forward and turned him round and saw his face. It was leaden-hued and dull; the wan38 and almost colourless eyes fixed on me in a vague and glassy stare, the jaw dropped sullenly66, and the tongue hung out. Dead.... And up the street, down in the cellars, at the base of the Twin Towers, they were dying. How futile67 it was to trouble about one when thousands needed help. Where should I begin? Who should I help first? Any help I might be able to give seemed so useless. I had been at work all the morning dressing the wounded, but there were so many. I was a mere10 child emptying the sea with a tablespoon. I crawled into the trench again to find Bill still looking over the parapet. This annoyed me. Why, I could not tell.
"What are you looking at?" I asked.
[117]
There was no answer. I looked along the trench and saw that all the men were looking towards the enemy's line; watching, as it seemed, for something to take place. None knew what the next moment would bring forth68. The expectant mood was prevalent. All were waiting.
Up the road some houses were still peopled with Germans, and snipers were potting at us with malicious69 persistency70, but behind the parapet we were practically immune from danger. As we looked a soldier appeared round the bend of the trench, the light of battle in his eyes and his body festooned with bombs.
"It's dangerous to go up the centre of the street," I called to him as he came to a halt beside me and looked up the village.
"Bend down," I said. "Your head is over the parapet." I recognised the man. He was Gilhooley the bomber71.
"What does it matter?" he muttered. "I want to get at them.... Oh! I know yer face.... D'ye mind the champagne72 at Nouex-les-Mines.... These bombs are real ones, me boy.... Do you know where the snipers are?"
"There's one up there," I said, raising my head and pointing to a large house on the left of the road near the Twin Towers. "I[118] saw the smoke of his rifle when he fired at me a while ago."
"Then he must get what he's lookin' for," said Gilhooley, tightening73 his belt of bombs, and, clutching his rifle, rushed out into the roadway. "By Jasus! I'll get him out of it!"
I raised my head and watched, fascinated. With prodigious74 strides Gilhooley raced up the street, his rifle clutched tightly in his hand. Suddenly he paused, as if in thought, and his rifle went clattering75 across the cobbles. Then he sank slowly to the ground, kicking out a little with his legs. The bullet had hit him in the jaw and it came out through the back of his neck....
I could hear the wounded crying and moaning somewhere near, or perhaps far away. A low, lazy breeze slouched up from the field which we had crossed that morning, and sound travelled far. The enemy snipers on Hulluch copse were busy, and probably the dying were being hit again. Some of them desired it, the slow process of dying on the open field of war is so dreadful.... A den26 of guns, somewhere near Lens, became voluble, and a monstrous76 fanfare of fury echoed in the heavens. The livid sky seemed to pull itself up as if to be out of the way; under it the cavalcades77 of war ran riot. A chorus of screeches78 and yells[119] rose trembling and whirling in air, snatching at each other like the snarling79 and barking of angry dogs.
Bill stood motionless, looking at the enemy's line, his gaze concentrated on a single point; in his eyes there was a tense, troubled expression, as if he was calculating a sum which he could not get right. Now and again he would shake his head as if trying to throw something off and address a remark to the man next him, who did not seem to hear. Probably he was asleep. In the midst of artillery tumult80 some men are overcome with languor81 and drop asleep as they stand. On the other hand, many get excited, burst into song and laugh boisterously82 at most commonplace incidents.
Amidst the riot, an undertone of pain became more persistent83 than ever. The levels where the wounded lay were raked with shrapnel that burst viciously in air and struck the blood stained earth with spiteful vigour84.
The cry for stretcher-bearers came down the trench, and I hurried off to attend to the stricken. I met him crawling along on all fours, looking like an ungainly lobster85 that has escaped from a basket. A bullet had hit the man in the back and he was in great pain; so much in pain that when I was binding86 his wound he raised his fist and hit me in the face.
[120]
"I'm sorry," he muttered, a moment afterwards. "I didn't mean it, but, my God! this is hell!"
"You'll have to lie here," I said, when I put the bandage on. "You'll get carried out at night when we can cross the open."
"I'm going now," he said. "I want to go now. I must get away. You'll let me go, won't you, Pat?"
"You'll be killed before you're ten yards across the open," I said. "Better wait till to-night."
"Does the trench lead out?" he asked.
"It probably leads to the front trench which the Germans occupied this morning," I said.
"Well, if we get there it will be a step nearer the dressing-station, anyway," said the wounded boy. "Take me away from here, do please."
"Can you stand upright?"
"I'll try," he answered, and half weeping and half laughing, he got to his feet. "I'll be able to walk down," he muttered.
We set off. I walked in front, urging the men ahead to make way for a wounded man. No order meets with such quick obedience87 as "Make way for wounded."
All the way from Loos to the churchyard which the trench fringes and where the bones of the dead stick out through the[121] parapet, the trench was in fairly good order, beyond that was the dumping ground of death.
The enemy in their endeavour to escape from the Irish that morning crowded the trench like sheep in a lane-way, and it was here that the bayonet, rifle-butt and bomb found them. Now they lay six deep in places.... One bare-headed man lay across the parapet, his hand grasping his rifle, his face torn to shreds88 with rifle bullets. One of his own countrymen, hidden in Hulluch copse, was still sniping at the dead thing, believing it to be an English soldier. Such is the irony89 of war. The wounded man ambled90 painfully behind me, grunting91 and groaning92. Sometimes he stopped for a moment, leant against the side of the trench and swore for several seconds. Then he muttered a word of apology and followed me in silence. When we came to the places where the dead lay six deep we had to crawl across them on our hands and knees. To raise our heads over the parapet would be courting quick death. We would become part of that demolition of blood and flesh that was necessary for our victory. In front of us a crowd of civilians93, old men, women and children, was crawling and stumbling over the dead bodies. A little boy was eating the contents of a bully-beef tin with great relish,[122] and the ancient female who accompanied him crossed herself whenever she stumbled across a prostrate94 German. The civilians were leaving Loos.
On either side we could hear the wounded making moan, their cry was like the yelping95 of drowning puppies. But the man who was with me seemed unconscious of his surroundings; seldom even did he notice the dead on the floor of the trench; he walked over them unconcernedly.
I managed to bring him down to the dressing-station. When we arrived he sat on a seat and cried like a child.
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1
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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maxims
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| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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demolition
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| n.破坏,毁坏,毁坏之遗迹 | |
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ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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rubble
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| n.（一堆）碎石，瓦砾 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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lichen
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| n.地衣, 青苔 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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fanfare
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| n.喇叭；号角之声；v.热闹地宣布 | |
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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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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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blurry
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| adj.模糊的；污脏的，污斑的 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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den
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crest
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artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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proficiency
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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inter
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| v.埋葬 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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ragtime
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| n.拉格泰姆音乐 | |
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plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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scurried
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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53
flop
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| n.失败(者)，扑通一声；vi.笨重地行动，沉重地落下 | |
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compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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alcoholic
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| adj.（含）酒精的，由酒精引起的；n.酗酒者 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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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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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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bomber
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| n.轰炸机，投弹手，投掷炸弹者 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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cavalcades
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| n.骑马队伍，车队( cavalcade的名词复数 ) | |
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screeches
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| n.尖锐的声音( screech的名词复数 )v.发出尖叫声( screech的第三人称单数 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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81
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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boisterously
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| adv.喧闹地，吵闹地 | |
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83
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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84
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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85
lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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86
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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ambled
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的过去式和过去分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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grunting
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| 咕哝的，呼噜的 | |
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groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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civilians
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| 平民，百姓( civilian的名词复数 )； 老百姓 | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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yelping
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| v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的现在分词 ) | |
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