[Linuxargentina-proyectos] {Spam?} ered at me. Then suddenly

Lun Dic 7 00:00:57 CET 2009

P and down the platform arranging the order of cakes from home and
trying to gather from the sound of the gunning and intermittent visits
to the Signal Office what was happening. Someone had been told that the
old 15th was being hard pressed. Each of us regretted loudly that we had
not been attached to it, though our hearts spoke differently. Despatch
riders have muddled thoughts. There is a longing for the excitement of
danger and a very earnest desire to keep away from it. The C.O. walked
on to the platform hurriedly, and in a minute or two I was off. It was
lucky that the road was covered with unholy grease, that the light was
bad and there was transport on the road--for it is not good for a
despatch rider to think too much of what is before him. My instructions
were to report to the general and make myself useful. I was also
cheerfully informed that the H.Q. of the 15th were under a robust
shell-fire. Little parties of sad-looking wounded that I passed, the
noise of the guns, and the evil dusk heartened me. I rode into
Festubert, which was full of noise, and, very hastily dismounting, put
my motor-cycle under the cover of an arch and reported to the general.
He was sitting at a table in the stuffy room of a particularly dirty
tavern. At the far end a fat and frightened woman was crooning to her
child. Beside her sat a wrinkled, leathery old man with bandaged head.
He had wandered into the street, and he had been cut about by shrapnel.
The few wits he had ever possessed were gone, and he gave every few
seconds little croaks of hate. Three telephone operators were working
with strained faces at their highest speed. The windows had been smashed
by shrapnel, and bits of glass and things crunched under foot. The room
was full of noises--the crackle of the telephones, the crooning of the
woman, the croak of the wounded old man, the clear and incisive tones of
the general and his brigade-major, the rattle of not too distant rifles,
the booming of guns and occasionally the terrific, overwhelming crash of
a shell bursting in the village. I was given a glass of wine. Cadell, th
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