The other had left him all the afternoon to bear
his trouble alone. Now here in the darkness he felt that the moment
had come, and sat a little closer, for he knew that the boy would
speak of his own accord. A bullet over their heads glanced off,
knocking down a lump of frozen turf.
"Hullo, old gravedigger," said the other, "don't get too fresh."
"Might as well make an end of it now," said Maxime. "That's what they
all seem to want."
"Give the boche your skin for a present? I'll say you're generous!"
"It's not only the boches; they all have a hand in it."
"Who, all?"
"All of them back there where I come from, in Paris, friends and
relations; the people on the other side of the grave, the live
ones.--As for us, we are as good as dead."
In the long silence that followed they could hear the scream of a
shell across the sky. Maxime's comrade blew out a mouthful of smoke.
"Well, youngster," he said, "it didn't go right, back there this time,
did it?--I guessed as much!"
"I don't know why."
"When one is hurt, and the other isn't, they haven't much to say to
one another."
"Oh, they suffer too."
"Not the same. You can't make a man know what a toothache is unless he
feels it. Can't be done. Go to them all snuggled up in their beds, and
make them understand how it is out here!.
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