You do not currently have permission to view the full text for this document. Please sign in to an account with an active subscription or contact support.
The Intelligence Officer sat on one side of the table and I sat facing him. “Can you show me whereabouts your tank got stuck?” It sounded simple, but though it was early afternoon I seemed incapable of thought. I said it was a bit to the right of Hill 40, that is, east of it – or was it west? It could be …
He waited patiently, “Here, show me on the map.”
Obviously it could not be west – it would be in the German lines. Nor east, because we would not have got into action. But, come to think of it, I was not sure we had got into action. I kept thinking of my shell-hole which I shared with a corpse from a previous engagement.
“Here”, I said with a wobbly finger.
“Or”, he said with scarcely concealed sarcasm, “possibly here … perhaps?”
I agreed that it was very likely. The corpse was lying andrews-cross-wise. It was thin, desiccated, not blown-up, and the green skin was stretched tight like parchment over the bones of the face.
“Sir?” He was asking me something.
“I said, did you notice when the alluvial changed to the cretaceous?”
I could hardly believe my ears. “I didn't notice any change”, I said truthfully.
“There seems to be general agreement about that.” I was unable to interpret his intonation. Anyhow I was not alone; the fellow in the shell-hole had his mouth wide open, the skin stretched – by the mouth? Or did the tight skin pull it open? It – or was it ‘he‘? – didn't stink, for which I was thankful.