The Washington times., 1931-11-30

A Story Of the Aftermath
or the World War


bloom is in flower, the air hot
and still; observation balloons
and white wind clouds hang on
the horizon. The red petals Of
a poppy flower rock to and fro
before my steel helmet.
A very faint, hardly audible
scratching comes across to me
from beyond the brambleS
ahead 1t is silent again.
wait on. A beetle with green
ish wings crawls UP a camomile
stalk in front Of me. His feelers
are cropping over the jagged
leaves. Again a light ruSCling
in the MONDAY silence. The
rim of a helmet shows over the
bushes. A forehead, clear eyes,
a firm mouth; searchingly the
eyes move over the landscape
and return again to a pad OF
white paper and some crayons..
Quite unsuspecting Of danger,
the man is making a pastel OF
the farm yonder and the dark
copper beeches in the quivering
air.
I drag the hand grenade
toward me. It takes a long
time. At last it is lying beside
me. With my left hand I
pull the button and count
under my breath; then send
the bomb flying in a low curve
to the blackberry bushes and
slip back swiftly into my hol-
low. press my body close
down on the earth, bury my
face in the grass and open my
mouth.
The crash of the explosion
tears the air, splinters twang"
ing. A cry goes up, long-drawn,
frantic with horror. I hold the
second bomb in my hand and
peer out from my cover. The
EngliShman is lying clear in
the open field: his two legs are
blown off at the knees; the
bands of his puttees, far I'm
rolled. trail out behind him
like loose ribbons. He is lying
on his belly; with his arms he
paddles the grass; his mouth is
wide open, shrieking.
He heaves himself around
and sees me.
Then he props himself on his
arms and rearS his trunk like a
seal; he shrieks at me. The red
face grows pale and sinks in, the
gaze snaps and the eyes and
mouth are at last no more than
black caverns in a countenance,
that slowly inclines to the earth,
says and sinks into the dande-
lions. Finished!
From Death to Life!
I worm myself off and begin
to work my way back to our
trenches. But I look around once
more. The dead man has sud-
denly come to life again! He
straightenS up as If he meant to
run after me! pull the string
of the second hand grenade and
hurl it toward him. It falls
yard short, rolls, and lies still.
I count-count-why doesn't it
explode? The dead man is
standing upright; he is showing
his teeth! I throw the next hand
grenade-it misses fire, also. He
has made a few steps already
he is running on his stumpS,
grinning. his arms stretched out
toward me. I hurl my last hand
grenade. It goes flying to his
chest: he wards it off. I jump
up to run, but my knees refuse
to work: they are soft as butter.
Endlessly, painfully. drag them
forward; / stick fast to the
ground: wrench, hurl myself
forward. Already I hear the
painting of my pursuer. drag
my failing legs with my hands.
But from behind two hands close
around my neck: they bear me
backward to the ground.
The dead man is kneeling on
my chest; he haulS in the put
tees trailing out behind him
over the grass: he twists them
around my neck. I bend my
head away, I brace all my
muscles, I fling myself to the
right to escape the noose.-Ah!
A jerk, a strangling pain in the
throat. The dead man is drag.
ging me toward the precipitous
edge of the chalk pit. He is
rolling me down into it. I lose
balance, struggle to catch hold
Il am slipping, I fall, cry out.
fall endlessly, cry, hit some
thing cry
Darkness comes away in great
clots under my clutching hands.
With a crash, something falls
down beside me. 1 strike upon
stones, on sharp corners, iron;
I shrek uncontrolably, swift
wild yelling I cannot stop.
Shout ingS, clutching at my
arms.-I beat them off; some
body trips over me. snatch
a rifle, grope for cover; 1
wrench the weapon to my Shout
der, pull the trigger still yelling.
Then suddenly. like a knife,
it pierces the uproar: "Birk-
holz!"-again-''Birkhol!" - I
jump up. That's help coming!
I must cut my way through! I
wrench free, + run. A blow on
my knee and fall into a soft
hollow, into light, shrill, stab
bling light. "Birkholz!-Birk-
holz!"-Now nothing but my
own cry like a spear in space.
Suddenly it breaks.
(To be continued.)
| (COnvrI1ht Erich Maria RauoorU,,a