HE WAS WOKEN by a boot nudging the small of his back. “C’mon, guv’nor. Rise and shine.”
He sat up and looked at his watch. The barn entrance was a rectangle of bluish-black. He had been asleep, he reckoned, for less than forty-five minutes. Mace2 diligently3 emptied the straw from the sacks and dismantled4 his table. They sat in silence on the hay bales smoking the first cigarette of the day. When they stepped outside they found a clay pot with a heavy wooden lid. Inside, wrapped in muslin cloth, was a loaf and a wedge of cheese. Turner divided the provisions right there with a bowie knife.
“In case we’re separated,” he murmured.
A light was on already in the farmhouse5 and the dogs were in a frenzy6 as they walked away. They climbed a gate and began to cross a field in a northerly direction. After an hour they stopped in a coppiced wood to drink from their canteens and smoke. Turner studied the map. Already, the first bombers7 were high overhead, a formation of about fifty Heinkels, heading the same way to the coast. The sun was coming up and there was little cloud. A perfect day for the Luftwaffe. They walked in silence for another hour. There was no path, so he made a route by the compass, through fields of cows and sheep, turnips9 and young wheat. They were not as safe as he thought, away from the road. One field of cattle had a dozen shell craters10, and fragments of flesh, bone and brindled11 skin had been blasted across a hundred-yard stretch. But each man was folded into his thoughts and no one spoke12. Turner was troubled by the map. He guessed they were twenty-five miles from Dunkirk. The closer they came, the harder it would be to stay off the roads. Everything converged13. There were rivers and canals to cross. When they headed for the bridges they would only lose time if they cut away across country again.
Just after ten they stopped for another rest. They had climbed a fence to reach a track, but he could not find it on the map. It ran in the right direction anyway, over flat, almost treeless land. They had gone another half hour when they heard antiaircraft fire a couple of miles ahead where they could see the spire14 of a church. He stopped to consult the map again.
Corporal Nettle15 said, “It don’t show crumpet, that map.”
“Ssh. He’s having his doubts.”
Turner leaned his weight against a fence post. His side hurt whenever he put his right foot down. The sharp thing seemed to be protruding16 and snagging on his shirt. Impossible to resist probing with a forefinger17. But he felt only tender, ruptured18 flesh. After last night, it wasn’t right he should have to listen to the corporals’ taunts19 again. Tiredness and pain were making him irritable20, but he said nothing and tried to concentrate. He found the village on the map, but not the track, though it surely led there. It was just as he had thought. They would join the road, and they would need to stay on it all the way to the defense21 line at the Bergues-Furnes canal. There was no other route. The corporals’ banter22 was continuing. He folded the map and walked on.
“What’s the plan, guv’nor?”
He did not reply.
“Oh, oh. Now you’ve offended her.”
Beyond the ack-ack, they heard artillery23 fire, their own, some way further to the west. As they approached the village they heard the sound of slow-moving lorries. Then they saw them, stretching in a line to the north, traveling at walking pace. It was going to be tempting24 to hitch25 a ride, but he knew from experience what an easy target they would be from the air. On foot you could see and hear what was coming.
Their track joined the road where it turned a right-angled corner to leave the village. They rested their feet for ten minutes, sitting on the rim26 of a stone water trough. Three- and ten-ton lorries, half-tracks and ambulances were grinding round the narrow turn at less than one mile an hour, and moving away from the village down a long straight road whose left side was flanked by plane trees. The road led directly north, toward a black cloud of burning oil that stood above the horizon, marking out Dunkirk. No need for a compass now. Dotted along the way were disabled military vehicles. Nothing was to be left for enemy use. From the backs of receding27 lorries the conscious wounded stared out blankly. There were also armored cars, staff cars, Bren-gun carriers and motorbikes. Mixed in with them and stuffed or piled high with household gear and suitcases were civilian28 cars, buses, farm trucks and carts pushed by men and women or pulled by horses. The air was gray with diesel29 fumes30, and straggling wearily through the stench, and for the moment moving faster than the traffic, were hundreds of soldiers, most of them carrying their rifles and their awkward greatcoats—a burden in the morning’s growing warmth.
Walking with the soldiers were families hauling suitcases, bundles, babies, or holding the hands of children. The only human sound Turner heard, piercing the din8 of engines, was the crying of babies. There were old people walking singly. One old man in a fresh lawn suit, bow tie and carpet slippers31 shuffled32 by with the help of two sticks, advancing so slowly that even the traffic was passing him. He was panting hard. Wherever he was going he surely would not make it. On the far side of the road, right on the corner, was a shoe shop open for business. Turner saw a woman with a little girl at her side talking to a shop assistant who displayed a different shoe in the palm of each hand. The three paid no attention to the procession behind them. Moving against the flow, and now trying to edge round this same corner, was a column of armored cars, the paintwork untouched by battle, heading south into the German advance. All they could hope to achieve against a Panzer division was an extra hour or two for the retreating soldiers.
Turner stood up, drank from his canteen and stepped into the procession, slipping in behind a couple of Highland33 Light Infantry34 men. The corporals followed him. He no longer felt responsible for them now they had joined the main body of the retreat. His lack of sleep exaggerated his hostility35. Today their teasing needled him and seemed to betray the comradeship of the night before. In fact, he felt hostile to everyone around him. His thoughts had shrunk to the small hard point of his own survival.
Wanting to shake the corporals off, he quickened his pace, overtook the Scotsmen and pushed his way past a group of nuns36 shepherding a couple of dozen children in blue tunics37. They looked like the rump of a boarding school, like the one he had taught at near Lille in the summer before he went up to Cambridge. It seemed another man’s life to him now. A dead civilization. First his own life ruined, then everybody else’s. He strode on angrily, knowing it was a pace he could not maintain for long. He had been in a column like this before, on the first day, and he knew what he was looking for. To his immediate38 right was a ditch, but it was shallow and exposed. The line of trees was on the other side. He slipped across, in front of a Renault saloon. As he did so the driver leaned on his horn. The shrill39 Klaxon startled Turner into a sudden fury. Enough! He leaped back to the driver’s door and wrenched40 it open. Inside was a trim little fellow in a gray suit and fedora, with leather suitcases piled at his side and his family jammed in the backseat. Turner grabbed the man by his tie and was ready to smack41 his stupid face with an open right hand, but another hand, one of some great strength, closed about his wrist.
“That ain’t the enemy, guv’nor.”
Without releasing his grip, Corporal Mace pulled him away. Nettle, who was just behind, kicked the Renault door shut with such ferocity that the wing mirror fell off. The children in blue tunics cheered and clapped.
The three crossed to the other side and walked on under the line of trees. The sun was well up now and it was warm, but the shade was not yet over the road. Some of the vehicles lying across the ditches had been shot up in air attacks. Around the abandoned lorries they passed, supplies had been scattered42 by troops looking for food or drink or petrol. Turner and the corporals tramped through typewriter ribbon spools43 spilling from their boxes, double-entry ledgers44, consignments45 of tin desks and swivel chairs, cooking utensils46 and engine parts, saddles, stirrups and harnesses, sewing machines, football trophy47 cups, stackable chairs, and a film projector48 and petrol generator49, both of which someone had wrecked50 with the crowbar that was lying nearby. They passed an ambulance, half in the ditch with one wheel removed. A brass51 plaque52 on the door said, “This ambulance is a gift of the British residents of Brazil.”
It was possible, Turner found, to fall asleep while walking. The roar of lorry engines would be suddenly cut, then his neck muscles relaxed, his head drooped53, and he would wake with a start and a swerve54 to his step. Nettle and Mace were for getting a lift. But he had already told them the day before what he had seen in that first column—twenty men in the back of a three-ton lorry killed with a single bomb. Meanwhile he had cowered55 in a ditch with his head in a culvert and caught the shrapnel in his side.
“You go ahead,” he said. “I’m sticking here.”
So the matter was dropped. They wouldn’t go without him—he was their lucky ticket.
They came up behind some more HLI men. One of them was playing the bagpipes56, prompting the corporals to begin their own nasal whining57 parodies58. Turner made as if to cross the road.
“If you start a fight, I’m not with you.”
Already a couple of Scots had turned and were muttering to each other.
“It’s a braw bricht moonlicht nicht the nicht,” Nettle called out in Cockney. Something awkward might have developed then if they had not heard a pistol shot from up ahead. As they drew level the bagpipes fell silent. In a wide-open field the French cavalry59 had assembled in force and dismounted to form a long line. At the head stood an officer dispatching each horse with a shot to the head, and then moving on to the next. Each man stood to attention by his mount, holding his cap ceremonially against his chest. The horses patiently waited their turn.
This enactment60 of defeat depressed61 everyone’s spirits further. The corporals had no heart for a tangle1 with the Scotsmen, who could no longer be bothered with them. Minutes later they passed five bodies in a ditch, three women, two children. Their suitcases lay around them. One of the women wore carpet slippers, like the man in the lawn suit. Turner looked away, determined62 not to be drawn63 in. If he was going to survive, he had to keep a watch on the sky. He was so tired, he kept forgetting. And it was hot now. Some men were letting their greatcoats drop to the ground. A glorious day. In another time this was what would have been called a glorious day. Their road was on a long slow rise, enough to be a drag on the legs and increase the pain in his side. Each step was a conscious decision. A blister64 was swelling65 on his left heel which forced him to walk on the edge of his boot. Without stopping, he took the bread and cheese from his bag, but he was too thirsty to chew. He lit another cigarette to curb66 his hunger and tried to reduce his task to the basics: you walked across the land until you came to the sea. What could be simpler, once the social element was removed? He was the only man on earth and his purpose was clear. He was walking across the land until he came to the sea. The reality was all too social, he knew; other men were pursuing him, but he had comfort in a pretense67, and a rhythm at least for his feet. He walked/across/the land/until/he came/to the sea. A hexameter. Five iambs and an anapest was the beat he tramped to now.
Another twenty minutes and the road began to level out. Glancing over his shoulder he saw the convoy68 stretching back down the hill for a mile. Ahead, he could not see the end of it. They crossed a railway line. By his map they were sixteen miles from the canal. They were entering a stretch where the wrecked equipment along the road was more or less continuous. Half a dozen twenty-five-pounder guns were piled beyond the ditch, as if swept up there by a heavy bulldozer. Up ahead where the land began to drop there was a junction69 with a back road and some kind of commotion70 was taking place. There was laughter from the soldiers on foot and raised voices at the roadside. As he came up, he saw a major from the Buffs, a pink-faced fellow of the old school, in his forties, shouting and pointing toward a wood that lay about a mile away across two fields. He was pulling men out of the column, or trying to. Most ignored him and kept going, some laughed at him, but a few were intimidated71 by his rank and had stopped, though he lacked any personal authority. They were gathered around him with their rifles, looking uncertain.
“You. Yes you. You’ll do.”
The major’s hand was on Turner’s shoulder. He stopped and saluted72 before he knew what he was doing. The corporals were behind him.
The major had a little toothbrush mustache overhanging small, tight lips that clipped his words briskly. “We’ve got Jerry trapped in the woods over there. He must be an advance party. But he’s well dug in with a couple of machine guns. We’re going to get in there and flush him out.”
Turner felt the horror chill and weaken his legs. He showed the major his empty palms.
“What with, sir?”
“With cunning and a bit of teamwork.”
How was the fool to be resisted? Turner was too tired to think, though he knew he wasn’t going.
“Now, I’ve got the remains74 of two platoons halfway75 up the eastern . . .”
“Remains” was the word that told the story, and prompted Mace, with all his barrack-room skill, to interrupt.
“Beg pardon, sir. Permission to speak.”
“Not granted, Corporal.”
“Thank you, sir. Orders is from GHQ. Proceed at haste and speed and celerity, without delay, diversion or divagation to Dunkirk for the purposes of immediate evacuation on account of being ’orribly and onerously76 overrun from all directions. Sir.”
The major turned and poked77 his forefinger into Mace’s chest.
“Now look here you. This is our one last chance to show . . .”
Corporal Nettle said dreamily, “It was Lord Gort what wrote out that order, sir, and sent it down personally.”
It seemed extraordinary to Turner that an officer should be addressed this way. And risky78 too. The major had not grasped that he was being mocked. He seemed to think that it was Turner who had spoken, for the little speech that followed was addressed to him.
“The retreat is a bloody79 shambles80. For heaven’s sake, man. This is your one last good chance to show what we can do when we’re decisive and determined. What’s more . . .”
He went on to say a good deal more, but it seemed to Turner that a muffling81 silence had descended82 on the bright late morning scene. This time he wasn’t asleep. He was looking past the major’s shoulder toward the head of the column. Hanging there, a long way off, about thirty feet above the road, warped83 by the rising heat, was what looked like a plank84 of wood, suspended horizontally, with a bulge85 in its center. The major’s words were not reaching him, and nor were his own clear thoughts. The horizontal apparition86 hovered87 in the sky without growing larger, and though he was beginning to understand its meaning, it was, as in a dream, impossible to begin to respond or move his limbs. His only action had been to open his mouth, but he could make no sound, and would not have known what to say, even if he could.
Then, precisely88 at the moment when sound flooded back in, he was able to shout, “Go!” He began to run directly toward the nearest cover. It was the vaguest, least soldierly form of advice, but he sensed the corporals not far behind. Dreamlike too was the way he could not move his legs fast enough. It was not pain he felt below his ribs89, but something scraping against the bone. He let his greatcoat fall. Fifty yards ahead was a three-ton lorry on its side. That black greasy90 chassis91, that bulbous differential was his only home. He didn’t have long to get there. A fighter was strafing the length of the column. The broad spray of fire was advancing up the road at two hundred miles an hour, a rattling92 hailstorm din of cannon93 rounds hitting metal and glass. No one inside the near-stationary vehicles had started to react. Drivers were only just registering the spectacle through their windscreens. They were where he had been seconds before. Men in the backs of the lorries knew nothing. A sergeant94 stood in the center of the road and raised his rifle. A woman screamed, and then fire was upon them just as Turner threw himself into the shadow of the upended lorry. The steel frame trembled as rounds hit it with the wild rapidity of a drumroll. Then the cannon fire swept on, hurtling down the column, chased by the fighter’s roar and the flicker95 of its shadow. He pressed himself into the darkness of the chassis by the front wheel. Never had sump oil smelled sweeter. Waiting for another plane, he crouched96 fetally, his arms cradling his head and eyes tight shut, and thought only of survival.
But nothing came. Only the sounds of insects determined on their late spring business, and birdsong resuming after a decent pause. And then, as if taking their cue from the birds, the wounded began to groan97 and call out, and terrified children began to cry. Someone, as usual, was cursing the RAF. Turner stood up and was dusting himself down when Nettle and Mace emerged and together they walked back toward the major who was sitting on the ground. All the color had gone from his face, and he was nursing his right hand.
“Bullet went clean through it,” he said as they came up. “Jolly lucky really.”
They helped him to his feet and offered to take him over to an ambulance where an RAMC captain and two orderlies were already seeing to the wounded. But he shook his head and stood there unaided. In shock he was talkative and his voice was softer.
“ME 109. Must have been his machine gun. The cannon would have blown my ruddy hand off. Twenty millimeter, you know. He must have strayed from his group. Spotted98 us on his way home and couldn’t resist. Can’t blame him, really. But it means there’ll be more of them pretty soon.”
The half dozen men he had gathered up before had picked themselves and their rifles out of the ditch and were wandering off. The sight of them recalled the major to himself.
“All right, chaps. Form up.”
They seemed quite unable to resist him and formed a line. Trembling a little now, he addressed Turner.
“And you three. At the double.”
“Actually, old boy, to tell the truth, I think we’d rather not.”
“Oh, I see.” He squinted99 at Turner’s shoulder, seeming to see there the insignia of senior rank. He gave a good-natured salute73 with his left hand. “In that case, sir, if you don’t mind, we’ll be off. Wish us luck.”
“Good luck, Major.”
They watched him march his reluctant detachment away toward the woods where the machine guns waited.
For half an hour the column did not move. Turner put himself at the disposal of the RAMC captain and helped on the stretcher parties bringing in the wounded. Afterward100 he found places for them on the lorries. There was no sign of the corporals. He fetched and carried supplies from the back of an ambulance. Watching the captain at work, stitching a head wound, Turner felt the stirrings of his old ambitions. The quantity of blood obscured the textbook details he remembered. Along their stretch of road there were five injured and, surprisingly, no one dead, though the sergeant with the rifle was hit in the face and was not expected to live. Three vehicles had their front ends shot up and were pushed off the road. The petrol was siphoned off and, for good measure, bullets were fired through the tires.
When all this was done in their section, there was still no movement up at the front of the column. Turner retrieved101 his greatcoat and walked on. He was too thirsty to wait about. An elderly Belgian lady shot in the knee had drunk the last of his water. His tongue was large in his mouth and all he could think of now was finding a drink. That, and keeping a watch on the sky. He passed sections like his own where vehicles were being disabled and the wounded were being lifted into lorries. He had been going for ten minutes when he saw Mace’s head on the grass by a pile of dirt. It was about twenty-five yards away, in the deep green shadow of a stand of poplars. He went toward it, even though he suspected that it would be better for his state of mind to walk on. He found Mace and Nettle shoulder deep in a hole. They were in the final stages of digging a grave. Lying facedown beyond the pile of earth was a boy of fifteen or so. A crimson102 stain on the back of his white shirt spread from neck to waist.
Mace leaned on his shovel103 and did a passable imitation. “‘I think we’d rather not.’ Very good, guv’nor. I’ll remember that next time.”
“Divagation was nice. Where d’you get that one?”
“He swallowed a fucking dictionary,” Corporal Nettle said proudly.
“I used to like the crossword104.”
“And ’orribly and onerously overrun?”
“That was a concert party they had in the sergeants’ mess last Christmas.”
Still in the grave, he and Nettle sang tunelessly for Turner’s benefit.
’Twas ostensibly ominous105 in the overview106
To be ’orribly and onerously overrun.
Behind them the column was beginning to move.
“Better stick him in,” Corporal Mace said.
The three men lifted the boy down and set him on his back. Clipped to his shirt pocket was a row of fountain pens. The corporals didn’t pause for ceremony. They began to shovel in the dirt and soon the boy had vanished.
Nettle said, “Nice-looking kid.”
The corporals had bound two tent poles with twine107 to make a cross. Nettle banged it in with the back of his shovel. As soon as it was done they walked back to the road.
Mace said, “He was with his grandparents. They didn’t want him left in the ditch. I thought they’d come over and see him off like, but they’re in a terrible state. We better tell them where he is.”
But the boy’s grandparents were not to be seen. As they walked on, Turner took out the map and said, “Keep watching the sky.” The major was right—after the Messerschmitt’s casual pass, they would be back. They should have been back by now. The Bergues-Furnes canal was marked in thick bright blue on his map. Turner’s impatience108 to reach it had become inseparable from his thirst. He would put his face in that blue and drink deeply. This thought put him in mind of childhood fevers, their wild and frightening logic109, the search for the cool corner of the pillow, and his mother’s hand upon his brow. Dear Grace. When he touched his own forehead the skin was papery and dry. The inflammation round his wound, he sensed, was growing, and the skin was becoming tighter, harder, with something, not blood, leaking out of it onto his shirt. He wanted to examine himself in private, but that was hardly possible here. The convoy was moving at its old inexorable pace. Their road ran straight to the coast—there would be no shortcuts110 now. As they drew closer, the black cloud, which surely came from a burning refinery111 in Dunkirk, was beginning to rule the northern sky. There was nothing to do but walk toward it. So he settled once more into silent head-down trudging112.
收听单词发音 |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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mace
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| n.狼牙棒，豆蔻干皮 | |
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diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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bombers
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| n.轰炸机( bomber的名词复数 )；投弹手；安非他明胶囊；大麻叶香烟 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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craters
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| n.火山口( crater的名词复数 )；弹坑等 | |
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brindled
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| adj.有斑纹的 | |
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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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converged
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| v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的过去式 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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nettle
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| n.荨麻；v.烦忧，激恼 | |
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protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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ruptured
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| v.（使）破裂( rupture的过去式和过去分词 )；（使体内组织等）断裂；使（友好关系）破裂；使绝交 | |
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taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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diesel
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| n.柴油发动机，内燃机 | |
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fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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37
tunics
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| n.（动植物的）膜皮( tunic的名词复数 )；束腰宽松外衣；一套制服的短上衣；（天主教主教等穿的）短祭袍 | |
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38
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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39
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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40
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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41
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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42
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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43
spools
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| n.（绕线、铁线、照相软片等的）管( spool的名词复数 )；络纱；纺纱机；绕圈轴工人v.把…绕到线轴上（或从线轴上绕下来）( spool的第三人称单数 )；假脱机（输出或输入） | |
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44
ledgers
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| n.分类账( ledger的名词复数 ) | |
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45
consignments
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| n.托付货物( consignment的名词复数 )；托卖货物；寄售；托运 | |
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46
utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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47
trophy
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| n.优胜旗，奖品，奖杯，战胜品，纪念品 | |
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48
projector
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| n.投影机，放映机，幻灯机 | |
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49
generator
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| n.发电机，发生器 | |
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50
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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51
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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52
plaque
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| n.饰板，匾，(医)血小板 | |
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53
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
swerve
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| v.突然转向，背离；n．转向，弯曲，背离 | |
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55
cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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56
bagpipes
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| n.风笛；风笛( bagpipe的名词复数 ) | |
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57
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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58
parodies
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| n.拙劣的模仿( parody的名词复数 )；恶搞；滑稽的模仿诗文；表面上模仿得笨拙但充满了机智用来嘲弄别人作品的作品v.滑稽地模仿，拙劣地模仿( parody的第三人称单数 ) | |
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59
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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60
enactment
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| n.演出，担任…角色；制订，通过 | |
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61
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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63
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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blister
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| n.水疱；(油漆等的)气泡；v.(使)起泡 | |
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65
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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66
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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68
convoy
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| vt.护送，护卫，护航；n.护送；护送队 | |
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69
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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70
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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71
intimidated
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| v.恐吓；威胁adj.害怕的；受到威胁的 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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73
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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74
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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onerously
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| adv.繁重地，艰巨地 | |
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77
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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78
risky
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| adj.有风险的，冒险的 | |
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79
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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80
shambles
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| n.混乱之处；废墟 | |
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81
muffling
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| v.压抑，捂住( muffle的现在分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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82
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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83
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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84
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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85
bulge
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| n.突出，膨胀，激增；vt.突出，膨胀 | |
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86
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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87
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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88
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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89
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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90
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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91
chassis
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| n.汽车等之底盘；（飞机的）起落架；炮底架 | |
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92
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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93
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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94
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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95
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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96
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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98
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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99
squinted
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| 斜视( squint的过去式和过去分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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100
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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101
retrieved
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| v.取回( retrieve的过去式和过去分词 )；恢复；寻回；检索（储存的信息） | |
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102
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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103
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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104
crossword
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| n.纵横字谜，纵横填字游戏 | |
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105
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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106
overview
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| n.概观，概述 | |
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107
twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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108
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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109
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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110
shortcuts
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| n.捷径( shortcut的名词复数 )；近路；快捷办法；被切短的东西（尤指烟草） | |
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111
refinery
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| n.精炼厂，提炼厂 | |
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112
trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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