THERE WAS MORE confusion ahead, more shouting. Incredibly, an armored column was forcing its way against the forward press of traffic, soldiers and refugees. The crowd parted reluctantly. People squeezed into the gaps between abandoned vehicles or against shattered walls and doorways1. It was a French column, hardly more than a detachment—three armored cars, two half-tracks and two troop carriers. There was no show of common cause. Among the British troops the view was that the French had let them down. No will to fight for their own country. Irritated at being pushed aside, the Tommies swore, and taunted2 their allies with shouts of “Maginot!” For their part, the poilus must have heard rumors3 of an evacuation. And here they were, being sent to cover the rear. “Cowards! To the boats! Go shit in your pants!” Then they were gone, and the crowd closed in again under a cloud of diesel5 smoke and walked on.
They were approaching the last houses in the village. In a field ahead, he saw a man and his collie dog walking behind a horse-drawn plow6. Like the ladies in the shoe shop, the farmer did not seem aware of the convoy7. These lives were lived in parallel—war was a hobby for the enthusiasts8 and no less serious for that. Like the deadly pursuit of a hunt to hounds, while over the next hedge a woman in the backseat of a passing motorcar was absorbed in her knitting, and in the bare garden of a new house a man was teaching his son to kick a ball. Yes, the plowing9 would still go on and there’d be a crop, someone to reap it and mill it, others to eat it, and not everyone would be dead . . .
Turner was thinking this when Nettle10 gripped his arm and pointed11. The commotion12 of the passing French column had covered the sound, but they were easy enough to see. There were at least fifteen of them, at ten thousand feet, little dots in the blue, circling above the road. Turner and the corporals stopped to watch, and everyone nearby saw them too.
An exhausted13 voice murmured close to his ear, “Fuck. Where’s the RAF?”
Another said knowingly, “They’ll go for the Frogs.”
As if goaded14 into disproof, one of the specks15 peeled away and began its near-vertical dive, directly above their heads. For seconds the sound did not reach them. The silence was building like pressure in their ears. Even the wild shouts that went up and down the road did not relieve it. Take cover! Disperse16! Disperse! At the double!
It was difficult to move. He could walk on at a steady trudge17, and he could stop, but it was an effort, an effort of memory, to reach for the unfamiliar18 commands, to turn away from the road and run. They had stopped by the last house in the village. Beyond the house was a barn and flanking both was the field where the farmer had been plowing. Now he was standing19 under a tree with his dog, as though sheltering from a shower of rain. His horse, still in harness, grazed along the unplowed strip. Soldiers and civilians21 were streaming away from the road in all directions. A woman brushed past him carrying a crying child, then she changed her mind and came back and stood, turning indecisively at the side of the road. Which way? The farmyard or the field? Her immobility delivered him from his own. As he pushed her by the shoulder toward the gate, the rising howl commenced. Nightmares had become a science. Someone, a mere23 human, had taken the time to dream up this satanic howling. And what success! It was the sound of panic itself, mounting and straining toward the extinction24 they all knew, individually, to be theirs. It was a sound you were obliged to take personally. Turner guided the woman through the gate. He wanted her to run with him into the center of the field. He had touched her, and made her decision for her, so now he felt he could not abandon her. But the boy was at least six years old and heavy, and together they were making no progress at all.
He dragged the child from her arms. “Come on,” he shouted.
A Stuka carried a single thousand-pound bomb. The idea on the ground was to get away from buildings, vehicles and other people. The pilot was not going to waste his precious load on a lone25 figure in a field. When he turned back to strafe it would be another matter. Turner had seen them hunt down a sprinting26 man for the sport of it. With a free hand he was pulling on the woman’s arm. The boy was wetting his pants and screaming in Turner’s ear. The mother seemed incapable27 of running. She was stretching out her hand and shouting. She wanted her son back. The child was wriggling28 toward her, across his shoulder. Now came the screech29 of the falling bomb. They said that if you heard the noise stop before the explosion, your time was up. As he dropped to the grass he pulled the woman with him and shoved her head down. He was half lying across the child as the ground shook to the unbelievable roar. The shock wave prized them from the earth. They covered their faces against the stinging spray of dirt. They heard the Stuka climb from its dive even as they heard the banshee wail30 of the next attack. The bomb had hit the road less than eighty yards away. He had the boy under his arm and he was trying to pull the woman to her feet.
“We’ve got to run again. We’re too close to the road.”
The woman answered but he did not understand her. Again they were stumbling across the field. He felt the pain in his side like a flash of color. The boy was in his arms, and again the woman seemed to be dragging back, and trying to get her son from him. There were hundreds in the field now, all making for the woods on the far side. At the shrill31 whine32 of the bomb everyone cowered33 on the ground. But the woman had no instinct for danger and he had to pull her down again. This time they were pressing their faces into freshly turned earth. As the screech grew louder the woman shouted what sounded like a prayer. He realized then that she wasn’t speaking French. The explosion was on the far side of the road, more than a hundred and fifty yards away. But now the first Stuka was turning over the village and dropping for the strafe. The boy had gone silent with shock. His mother wouldn’t stand. Turner pointed to the Stuka coming in over the rooftops. They were right in its path and there was no time for argument. She wouldn’t move. He threw himself down into the furrow34. The rippling35 thuds of machine-gun fire in the plowed20 earth and the engine roar flashed past them. A wounded soldier was screaming. Turner was on his feet. But the woman would not take his hand. She sat on the ground and hugged the boy tightly to her. She was speaking Flemish to him, soothing36 him, surely telling him that everything was going to be all right. Mama would see to that. Turner didn’t know a single word of the language. It would have made no difference. She paid him no attention. The boy was staring at him blankly over his mother’s shoulder.
Turner took a step back. Then he ran. As he floundered across the furrows37 the attack was coming in. The rich soil was clinging to his boots. Only in nightmares were feet so heavy. A bomb fell on the road, way over in the center of the village, where the lorries were. But one screech hid another, and it hit the field before he could go down. The blast lifted him forward several feet and drove him face-first into the soil. When he came to, his mouth and nose and ears were filled with dirt. He was trying to clear his mouth, but he had no saliva38. He used a finger, but that was worse. He was gagging on the dirt, then he was gagging on his filthy39 finger. He blew the dirt from his nose. His snot was mud and it covered his mouth. But the woods were near, there would be streams and waterfalls and lakes in there. He imagined a paradise. When the rising howl of a diving Stuka sounded again, he struggled to place the sound. Was it the all-clear? His thoughts too were clogged40. He could not spit or swallow, he could not easily breathe, and he could not think. Then, at the sight of the farmer with his dog still waiting patiently under the tree, it came back to him, he remembered everything and he turned to look back. Where the woman and her son had been was a crater41. Even as he saw it, he thought he had always known. That was why he had to leave them. His business was to survive, though he had forgotten why. He kept on toward the woods.
He walked a few steps into the tree cover, and sat in the new undergrowth with his back to a birch sapling. His only thought was of water. There were more than two hundred people sheltering in the woods, including some wounded who had dragged themselves in. There was a man, a civilian22, not far off, crying and shouting in pain. Turner got up and moved further away. All the new greenery spoke42 to him only of water. The attack continued on the road and over the village. He cleared away old leaves and used his helmet to dig. The soil was damp but no water oozed43 into the hole he had made, even when it was eighteen inches deep. So he sat and thought about water and tried to clean his tongue against his sleeve. When a Stuka dived, it was impossible not to tense and shrink, though each time he thought he didn’t have the strength. Toward the end they came over to strafe the woods, but to no effect. Leaves and twigs44 tumbled from the canopy45. Then the planes were gone, and in the huge silence that loomed46 over the fields and trees and the village, there was not even birdsong. After a while, from the direction of the road came blasts of a whistle for the all-clear. But no one moved. He remembered this from last time. They were too dazed, they were in shock from repeated episodes of terror. Each dive brought every man, cornered and cowering48, to face his execution. When it did not come, the trial had to be lived through all over again and the fear did not diminish. For the living, the end of a Stuka attack was the paralysis49 of shock, of repeated shocks. The sergeants51 and junior officers might come around shouting and kicking the men into standing. But they were drained and, for a good while, useless as troops.
So he sat there in a daze47 like everyone else, just as he had the first time, outside the village whose name he could not remember. These French villages with Belgian names. When he was separated from his unit and, what was worse for an infantryman, from his rifle. How many days ago? There could be no way of knowing. He examined his revolver which was clogged with dirt. He removed the ammunition53 and tossed the gun into the bushes. After a time there was a sound behind him and a hand was on his shoulder.
“Here you go. Courtesy of the Green Howards.”
Corporal Mace54 was passing him some dead man’s water bottle. Since it was almost full he used the first swig to rinse55 out his mouth, but that was a waste. He drank the dirt with the rest.
“Mace, you’re an angel.”
The corporal extended a hand to pull him up. “Got to shift. There’s a rumor4 the fucking Belgians have collapsed56. We might get cut off from the east. Still miles to go.”
As they were walking back across the field, Nettle joined them. He had a bottle of wine and an Amo bar which they passed around.
“Nice bouquet,” Turner said when he had drunk deeply.
“Dead Frog.”
The peasant and his collie were back behind the plow. The three soldiers approached the crater where the smell of cordite was strong. The hole was a perfectly57 symmetrical inverted58 cone59 whose sides were smooth, as though finely sieved60 and raked. There were no human signs, not a shred61 of clothing or shoe leather. Mother and child had been vaporized. He paused to absorb this fact, but the corporals were in a hurry and pushed him on and soon they joined the stragglers on the road. It was easier now. There would be no traffic until the sappers took their bulldozers into the village. Ahead, the cloud of burning oil stood over the landscape like an angry father. High-flying bombers62 droned above, a steady two-way stream moving into and returning from their target. It occurred to Turner that he might be walking into a slaughter63. But everyone was going that way, and he could think of no alternative. Their route was taking them well to the right of the cloud, to the east of Dunkirk, toward the Belgian border.
“Bray Dunes,” he said, remembering the name from the map.
Nettle said, “I like the sound of those.”
They passed men who could barely walk for their blisters64. Some were barefoot. A soldier with a bloody65 chest wound reclined in an ancient pram66 pushed by his mates. A sergeant50 was leading a cart horse over the back of which was draped an officer, unconscious or dead, his feet and wrists secured by ropes. Some troops were on bicycles, most walked in twos or threes. A dispatch rider from the Highland67 Light Infantry52 came by on a Harley-Davidson. His bloodied68 legs dangled69 uselessly, and his pillion passenger, who had heavily bandaged arms, was working the foot pedals. All along the way were discarded greatcoats, left there by men too hot to carry them. Turner had already talked the corporals out of leaving theirs.
They had been going for an hour when they heard behind them a rhythmic70 thudding, like the ticking of a gigantic clock. They turned to look back. At first sight it seemed that an enormous horizontal door was flying up the road toward them. It was a platoon of Welsh Guards in good order, rifles at the slope, led by a second lieutenant71. They came by at a forced march, their gaze fixed72 forward, their arms swinging high. The stragglers stood aside to let them through. These were cynical73 times, but no one risked a catcall. The show of discipline and cohesion74 was shaming. It was a relief when the Guards had pounded out of sight and the rest could resume their introspective trudging75.
The sights were familiar, the inventory76 was the same, but now there was more of everything; vehicles, bomb craters77, detritus78. There were more bodies. He walked across the land until he caught the taste of the sea, carried across the flat, marshy79 fields on a freshening breeze. The one-way flow of people with a single purpose, the constant self-important traffic in the air, the extravagant80 cloud advertising81 their destination, suggested to his tired but overactive mind some long-forgotten childhood treat, a carnival82 or sports event on which they were all converging83. There was a memory that he could not place, of being carried on his father’s shoulders, up a hill toward a great attraction, toward the source of a huge excitement. He would like those shoulders now. His missing father had left few memories. A knotted neck scarf, a certain smell, the vaguest outline of a brooding, irritable84 presence. Did he avoid serving in the Great War, or did he die somewhere near here under another name? Perhaps he survived. Grace was certain he was too cowardly, too shifty, to join up, but she had her own reason to be bitter. Nearly every man here had a father who remembered northern France, or was buried in it. He wanted such a father, dead or alive. Long ago, before the war, before Wandsworth, he used to revel85 in his freedom to make his own life, devise his own story with only the distant help of Jack86 Tallis. Now he understood how conceited87 a delusion88 this was. Rootless, therefore futile89. He wanted a father, and for the same reason, he wanted to be a father. It was common enough, to see so much death and want a child. Common, therefore human, and he wanted it all the more. When the wounded were screaming, you dreamed of sharing a little house somewhere, of an ordinary life, a family line, connection. All around him men were walking silently with their thoughts, reforming their lives, making resolutions. If I ever get out of this lot . . . They could never be counted, the dreamed-up children, mentally conceived on the walk into Dunkirk, and later made flesh. He would find Cecilia. Her address was on the letter in his pocket, next to the poem. In the deserts of the heart/Let the healing fountain start. He would find his father too. They were supposed to be good at tracking down missing persons, the Salvation90 Army. A perfect name. He would track down his father, or his dead father’s story—either way, he would become his father’s son.
They walked all afternoon until at last, a mile ahead, where gray and yellow smoke billowed up from surrounding fields, they saw the bridge across the Bergues-Furnes canal. All the way in now, not a farmhouse91 or barn was left standing. As well as smoke, a miasma92 of rotting meat drifted toward them—more slaughtered93 cavalry94 horses, hundreds of them, in a heap in a field. Not far from them was a smoldering95 mountain of uniforms and blankets. A beefy lance corporal with a sledgehammer was smashing typewriters and mimeograph machines. Two ambulances were parked at the side of the road, their back doors open. From inside came the groans96 and shouts of wounded men. One of them was crying out, over and over, more in rage than pain, “Water, I want water!” Like everyone else, Turner kept going.
The crowds were bunching up again. In front of the canal bridge was a junction97, and from the Dunkirk direction, on the road that ran along the canal, came a convoy of three-ton lorries which the military police were trying to direct into a field beyond where the horses were. But troops swarming99 across the road forced the convoy to a halt. The drivers leaned on their horns and shouted insults. The crowd pressed on. Men tired of waiting scrambled100 off the backs of the lorries. There was a shout of “Take cover!” And before anyone could even glance round, the mountain of uniforms was detonated. It began to snow tiny pieces of dark green serge. Nearer, a detachment of artillerymen were using hammers to smash up the dial sights and breechblocks of their guns. One of them, Turner noticed, was crying as he destroyed his howitzer. At the entrance to the same field, a chaplain and his clerk were dousing101 cases of prayer books and Bibles with petrol. Men were crossing the field toward a NAAFI dump, looking for cigarettes and booze. When a shout went up, dozens more left the road to join them. One group sat by a farm gate, trying on new shoes. A soldier with crammed102 cheeks pushed past Turner with a box of pink and white marshmallows. A hundred yards away a dump of Wellington boots, gas masks and capes103 was fired, and acrid104 smoke enveloped105 the line of men pushing forward to the bridge. At last the lorries were on the move and turned into the biggest field, immediately south of the canal. Military police were organizing the parking, lining106 up the rows, like stewards107 at a county show. The lorries were joining half-tracks, motorbikes, Bren-gun carriers and mobile kitchens. The disabling methods were, as always, simple—a bullet in the radiator108, and the engine left running until it seized up.
The bridge was held by the Coldstream Guards. Two neatly109 sandbagged machine-gun posts covered the approach. The men were clean-shaven, stone-eyed, silently contemptuous of the filthy disorganized rabble110 trailing by. On the other side of the canal, evenly spaced, white-painted stones marked out a path to a hut being used as an orderly room. On the far bank, to the east and west, the Guards were well dug in along their section. Waterfront houses had been commandeered, roof tiles punched out, and windows sandbagged for machine-gun slits111. A fierce sergeant was keeping order on the bridge. He was sending back a lieutenant on a motorbike. Absolutely no equipment or vehicles allowed. A man with a parrot in a cage was turned away. The sergeant was also pulling out men for perimeter112 defense113 duties, and doing it with far more authority than the poor major. A growing detachment stood unhappily at ease by the orderly room. Turner saw what was happening at the same time as the corporals, when they were still a good way back.
“They’ll fucking have you, mate,” Mace said to Turner. “Poor bloody infantry. If you want to go home to the crumpet, get between us and limp.”
Feeling dishonorable, but determined114 all the same, he put his arms round the corporals’ shoulders and they staggered forward.
“It’s your left, remember, guv’nor,” Nettle said. “Would you like me to pop my bayonet through your foot?”
“Thanks awfully115. I think I can manage.”
Turner let his head droop116 as they were crossing the bridge so he saw nothing of the duty sergeant’s ferocious117 gaze, though he felt its heat. He heard the barked command, “’Ere, you!” Some unfortunate just behind him was pulled out to help hold off the onslaught which must surely come within two or three days, while the last of the BEF was piling into the boats. What he did see while his head was lowered was a long black barge118 slipping under the bridge in the direction of Furnes in Belgium. The boatman sat at his tiller smoking a pipe, looking stolidly119 ahead. Behind him, ten miles away, Dunkirk burned. Ahead, in the prow120, two boys were bending over an upturned bike, mending a puncture121 perhaps. A line of washing which included women’s smalls was hanging out to dry. The smell of cooking, of onions and garlic, rose from the boat. Turner and the corporals crossed the bridge and passed the whitewashed122 rocks, a reminder124 of training camp and all the bull. In the orderly hut a phone was ringing.
Mace murmured, “You bloody well limp till we’re out of sight.”
But the land was flat for miles and there was no telling which way the sergeant might be looking, and they didn’t like to turn around to check. After half an hour they sat down on a rusty125 seed drill and watched the defeated army walk by. The idea was to get in among a completely fresh crowd, so that Turner’s sudden recovery did not attract the attention of an officer. A lot of men who passed were irritated at not finding the beach just beyond the canal. They seemed to think it was a failure of planning. Turner knew from the map there were another seven miles, and once they were on the move again, they were the hardest, the dreariest126 they had walked that day. The wide featureless land denied all sense of progress. Though the late afternoon sun was slipping through the trailing edges of the oil cloud, it was warmer than ever. They saw planes high over the port dropping their bombs. Worse, there were Stuka attacks right over the beach they were heading toward. They passed the walking wounded who could go no further. They sat like beggars at the side of the road, calling out for help, or for a mouthful of water. Others just lay by the ditch, unconscious, or lost in hopelessness. Surely there would be ambulances coming up from the defense perimeter, making regular runs to the beach. If there was time to whitewash123 rocks, there must be time to organize that. There was no water. They had finished the wine and now their thirst was all the greater. They carried no medicines. What were they expected to do? Carry a dozen men on their backs when they could barely walk themselves?
In sudden petulance127, Corporal Nettle sat down in the road, took off his boots and flung them into a field. He said he hated them, he fucking hated them more than all the fucking Germans put together. And his blisters were so bad he was better off with fuck all.
“It’s a long way to England in your socks,” Turner said. He felt weirdly128 lightheaded as he went into the field to search. The first boot was easy to find, but the second took him a while. At last he saw it lying in the grass near a black furry129 shape that seemed, as he approached, to be moving or pulsing. Suddenly a swarm98 of bluebottles rose into the air with an angry whining130 buzz, revealing the rotting corpse131 beneath. He held his breath, snatched the boot, and as he hurried away the flies settled back down and there was silence again.
After some coaxing132, Nettle was persuaded to take back his boots, tie them together and carry them round his neck. But he did this, he said, only as a favor to Turner.
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doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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diesel
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| n.柴油发动机，内燃机 | |
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plow
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| n.犁，耕地，犁过的地；v.犁，费力地前进[英]plough | |
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convoy
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| vt.护送，护卫，护航；n.护送；护送队 | |
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enthusiasts
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| n.热心人，热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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plowing
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| v.耕( plow的现在分词 )；犁耕；费力穿过 | |
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nettle
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| n.荨麻；v.烦忧，激恼 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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specks
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| n.眼镜；斑点，微粒，污点( speck的名词复数 ) | |
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disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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trudge
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| v.步履艰难地走；n.跋涉，费力艰难的步行 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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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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plowed
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| v.耕( plow的过去式和过去分词 )；犁耕；费力穿过 | |
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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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civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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mere
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extinction
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lone
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sprinting
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| v.短距离疾跑( sprint的现在分词 ) | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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screech
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| n./v.尖叫；(发出)刺耳的声音 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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saliva
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| n.唾液，口水 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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40
clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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41
crater
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| n.火山口，弹坑 | |
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42
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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43
oozed
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的过去式和过去分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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44
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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45
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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46
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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47
daze
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| v.(使)茫然，(使)发昏 | |
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48
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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49
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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50
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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51
sergeants
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| 警官( sergeant的名词复数 )； （美国警察）警佐； （英国警察）巡佐； 陆军（或空军）中士 | |
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52
infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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53
ammunition
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| n.军火，弹药 | |
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54
mace
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| n.狼牙棒，豆蔻干皮 | |
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55
rinse
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| v.用清水漂洗，用清水冲洗 | |
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56
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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57
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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58
inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
cone
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| n.圆锥体，圆锥形东西，球果 | |
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60
sieved
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| 筛，漏勺( sieve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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62
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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63
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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64
blisters
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| n.水疱( blister的名词复数 )；水肿；气泡 | |
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65
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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66
pram
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| n.婴儿车，童车 | |
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67
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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68
bloodied
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| v.血污的( bloody的过去式和过去分词 )；流血的；屠杀的；残忍的 | |
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69
dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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70
rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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71
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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72
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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73
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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74
cohesion
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| n.团结，凝结力 | |
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75
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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76
inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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77
craters
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| n.火山口( crater的名词复数 )；弹坑等 | |
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78
detritus
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| n.碎石 | |
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79
marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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80
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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81
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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82
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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83
converging
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| adj.收敛[缩]的，会聚的，趋同的v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的现在分词 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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84
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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85
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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86
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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87
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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88
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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89
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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90
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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91
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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92
miasma
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| n.毒气；不良气氛 | |
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93
slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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95
smoldering
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| v.用文火焖烧，熏烧，慢燃( smolder的现在分词 ) | |
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96
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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97
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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98
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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99
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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100
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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101
dousing
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| v.浇水在…上( douse的现在分词 )；熄灯[火] | |
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102
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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103
capes
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| 碎谷； 斗篷( cape的名词复数 )； 披肩； 海角； 岬 | |
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104
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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105
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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107
stewards
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| （轮船、飞机等的）乘务员( steward的名词复数 )； （俱乐部、旅馆、工会等的）管理员； （大型活动的）组织者； （私人家中的）管家 | |
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108
radiator
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| n.暖气片，散热器 | |
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109
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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110
rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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111
slits
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| n.狭长的口子，裂缝( slit的名词复数 )v.切开，撕开( slit的第三人称单数 )；在…上开狭长口子 | |
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112
perimeter
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| n.周边，周长，周界 | |
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113
defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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114
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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115
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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116
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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117
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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118
barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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119
stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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120
prow
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| n.(飞机)机头，船头 | |
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121
puncture
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| n.刺孔，穿孔；v.刺穿，刺破 | |
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122
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
whitewash
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| v.粉刷，掩饰；n.石灰水，粉刷，掩饰 | |
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124
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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125
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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126
dreariest
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| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的最高级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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127
petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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128
weirdly
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| 古怪地 | |
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129
furry
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| adj.毛皮的；似毛皮的；毛皮制的 | |
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130
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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131
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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132
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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