Energy books

They were lying in wet mud in those square
burrows, the men who had been working all night under their platoon
commanders, and were now sleeping and resting in their trench
dwellings. As I paddled on I glanced at those men lying on straw which
gave out a moist smell, mixed with the pungent vapors of chloride of
lime. They were not interested in the German guns, which were giving
their daily dose of "hate" to the village of Becourt-Becordel. The
noise did not interrupt their heavy, slumbrous breathing. Some of
those who were awake were reading novelettes, forgetting war in the
eternal plot of cheap romance. Others sat at the entrance of their
burrows with their knees tucked up, staring gloomily to the opposite
wall of the trench in day-dreams of some places betwixt Aberdeen and
Hackney Downs. I spoke to one of them, and said, "How are you getting
on?" He answered, "I'm not getting on. . . I don't see the fun of
this."
"Can you keep dry?"
"Dry? . . . I'm soaked to the skin.


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