Energy books

Our men
lived there and died there within a few yards of the enemy, crouched
below the sand-bags and burrowed in the sides of the crater. Lice
crawled over them in legions. Human flesh, rotting and stinking, mere
pulp, was pasted into the mud-banks. If they dug to get deeper cover
their shovels went into the softness of dead bodies who had been their
comrades. Scraps of flesh, booted legs, blackened hands, eyeless
heads, came falling over them when the enemy trench-mortared their
position or blew up a new mine-shaft.
I remember one young Irish officer who came down to bur quarters on a
brief respite from commanding the garrison at Hooge. He was a handsome
fellow, like young Philip of Spain by Velasquez, and he had a profound
melancholy in his eyes in spite of a charming smile.
"Do you mind if I have a bath before I join you?" he asked.
He walked about in the open air until the bath was ready. Even there a
strong, fetid smell came from him.
"Hooge," he said, in a thoughtful way, "is not a health resort.


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