BokRobot 읽기판
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무료Culture
F. Britten Austin
버전 선택
The subaltern commanding this section of the trench sat hunched in the narrow corridor of earth topped with sandbags. His knees drawn up to support his writing pad, he wrote quickly, pausing now and then to bite the end of his pencil and stare reflectively at the brown clay wall just two feet from his nose. Beside him, a man stood bent and motionless, peering into the lower end of a long, narrow box that he held against the trench side, its upper end just rising above the sandbag wall. Further view down the trench was blocked by a traverse—a thick earthen wall designed to limit damage from a shell burst or grenade. All was quiet.
The subaltern might have imagined he and the lookout were alone in this flat landscape where two armies had once hurled fire and steel at each other, hidden now from anyone who might have come to say the war was over and the armies had gone. He did not imagine that. Ever present in his mind was the parallel line of sandbags some fifty yards away, with a tangle of wire overgrown with rank grass and corn tufts stretching between. That line was the great permanent fact of his existence. He knew it in every detail better than he had ever known anything. Not a spot on that apparently deserted wall could change without his immediate interest. Even as he wrote, the feeling and the knowledge of it were concrete in his brain, keeping him in this cramped posture.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-f086397d77f64925a2bc24bc58d1cacf
# book_title: Culture
# chapter_id: 1-culture
# chapter_title: Culture
# book_page: 1 / 6
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
The subaltern commanding this section of the trench sat hunched in the narrow corridor of earth topped with sandbags. His knees drawn up to support his writing pad, he wrote quickly, pausing now and then to bite the end of his pencil and stare reflectively at the brown clay wall just two feet from his nose. Beside him, a man stood bent and motionless, peering into the lower end of a long, narrow box that he held against the trench side, its upper end just rising above the sandbag wall. Further view down the trench was blocked by a traverse—a thick earthen wall designed to limit damage from a shell burst or grenade. All was quiet.
The subaltern might have imagined he and the lookout were alone in this flat landscape where two armies had once hurled fire and steel at each other, hidden now from anyone who might have come to say the war was over and the armies had gone. He did not imagine that. Ever present in his mind was the parallel line of sandbags some fifty yards away, with a tangle of wire overgrown with rank grass and corn tufts stretching between. That line was the great permanent fact of his existence. He knew it in every detail better than he had ever known anything. Not a spot on that apparently deserted wall could change without his immediate interest. Even as he wrote, the feeling and the knowledge of it were concrete in his brain, keeping him in this cramped posture.Since October this wall had faced the other, and now it was June. For nine long months, through snow and rain and sunshine, from the long nights to the pitiless days, these two walls had remained the same, sheltering the same lurking enmities, though the individuals who temporarily incarnated them came and went. Sometimes they blazed with darting flames and erupting bombs that lobbed with deceptive, innocent slowness through the air, belching out masses of men who ran, stumbled, and fell in countless ways—men who shouted and screamed so their voices pierced the appalling uproar; sometimes they stretched blank across the fields in deathly stillness, as today. Their position had never changed. The quagmire between them, crisscrossed with barbed wire, had grown into a waste of grass and nodding poppies, half hiding what looked like bundles of weather-stained old clothes, from which came a sickening, all-pervading smell.
Behind each wall, hundreds had died or been carried away, maimed and broken, a lifelong burden for some human heart. Not a sandbag in the parapet lacked a man's name written in memoriam of a life suddenly extinguished. The necrology of the opposing parapet would have been just as full.
In the hush that brooded over so much death—past and to come—a pause, as if the invisible demon of war reflected on its work, a mood of questioning and revolt came over the subaltern as he scribbled.
"On a quiet evening like this one cannot help moralising a little," he wrote, "wondering what it's all for and what we purchase with our death. This constant murdering of individuals on both sides who commit the crime of inadvertently showing an inch of head—how does this help matters?" The sharp crack of a rifle along the trench made him raise his head, listening intently. The lookout did not stir; no further report came, so he resumed his letter. "I don't want to appear squeamish, but I doubt I shall ever be able to kill in cold blood. Long centuries of culture have unfitted me..."
He was interrupted by another officer who squirmed around the traverse with a pronounced stoop from his unusual height. The fair-moustached, boyish face of the newcomer was radiant with glee.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-f086397d77f64925a2bc24bc58d1cacf
# book_title: Culture
# chapter_id: 1-culture
# chapter_title: Culture
# book_page: 2 / 6
# chapter_page: 2
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Since October this wall had faced the other, and now it was June. For nine long months, through snow and rain and sunshine, from the long nights to the pitiless days, these two walls had remained the same, sheltering the same lurking enmities, though the individuals who temporarily incarnated them came and went. Sometimes they blazed with darting flames and erupting bombs that lobbed with deceptive, innocent slowness through the air, belching out masses of men who ran, stumbled, and fell in countless ways—men who shouted and screamed so their voices pierced the appalling uproar; sometimes they stretched blank across the fields in deathly stillness, as today. Their position had never changed. The quagmire between them, crisscrossed with barbed wire, had grown into a waste of grass and nodding poppies, half hiding what looked like bundles of weather-stained old clothes, from which came a sickening, all-pervading smell.
Behind each wall, hundreds had died or been carried away, maimed and broken, a lifelong burden for some human heart. Not a sandbag in the parapet lacked a man's name written in memoriam of a life suddenly extinguished. The necrology of the opposing parapet would have been just as full.
In the hush that brooded over so much death—past and to come—a pause, as if the invisible demon of war reflected on its work, a mood of questioning and revolt came over the subaltern as he scribbled.
"On a quiet evening like this one cannot help moralising a little," he wrote, "wondering what it's all for and what we purchase with our death. This constant murdering of individuals on both sides who commit the crime of inadvertently showing an inch of head—how does this help matters?" The sharp crack of a rifle along the trench made him raise his head, listening intently. The lookout did not stir; no further report came, so he resumed his letter. "I don't want to appear squeamish, but I doubt I shall ever be able to kill in cold blood. Long centuries of culture have unfitted me..."
He was interrupted by another officer who squirmed around the traverse with a pronounced stoop from his unusual height. The fair-moustached, boyish face of the newcomer was radiant with glee."I say, Lennard!" he said impetuously. "Ripping luck! We've just bagged Fritz! You heard that shot? Folwell, my sergeant, got him. Been waiting for over an hour without moving a muscle. Topping chap, Folwell. All he said was, 'Married life don't seem to 'ave spoilt my aim, sir.' You remember he asked for leave to get married?"
Lennard set aside his letter and lit a cigarette.
"I wonder whether Fritz was married," he said with a little malicious smile, his recent thoughts firing a final shot in a faint rearguard action against the returning everyday concerns.
"Well, that's one more nuisance abated."
"Rather!" said the other, seating himself and lighting a cigarette. "Fritz must have bagged at least a dozen of our chaps," he calculated, gazing at the thin spiral of smoke rising straight in the still air. "Well, he's gone, thank the Lord! We got Hans yesterday and Karl the day before. I must have a pot at old Hermann. If we bag him, we might hope for a quiet life."
Lennard nodded. Each German sniper—if he survived a day or two—gained an individuality and a name. Hermann was especially dangerous, lurking somewhere in a ruined cottage between the lines where they bent away from each other. He rarely fired except to kill, and hid so well that numerous patrols had failed to discover his lair.
The two subalterns chatted over their cigarettes as the red gold of the western sky faded into rose. They spoke of mess and trench incidents, magnified by their isolation from the main stream of life, and then of things that had once been important in London, now dwindled and remote. A year ago Lennard had been a critic who was read; Wilson, the tall subaltern, a painter whose first success hung on the line. Both were products of what they proudly called civilisation. As they talked, old scenes returned, overshadowing the present. At last Wilson rose, responding to an inner sense of time.
"Well, so long, old thing," he said, standing and straightening his tall frame, weary from so much bending. The momentary forgetfulness was fatal.
A rifle cracked, and the lanky subaltern collapsed as though his knees had been knocked from under him.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-f086397d77f64925a2bc24bc58d1cacf
# book_title: Culture
# chapter_id: 1-culture
# chapter_title: Culture
# book_page: 3 / 6
# chapter_page: 3
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"I say, Lennard!" he said impetuously. "Ripping luck! We've just bagged Fritz! You heard that shot? Folwell, my sergeant, got him. Been waiting for over an hour without moving a muscle. Topping chap, Folwell. All he said was, 'Married life don't seem to 'ave spoilt my aim, sir.' You remember he asked for leave to get married?"
Lennard set aside his letter and lit a cigarette.
"I wonder whether Fritz was married," he said with a little malicious smile, his recent thoughts firing a final shot in a faint rearguard action against the returning everyday concerns.
"Well, that's one more nuisance abated."
"Rather!" said the other, seating himself and lighting a cigarette. "Fritz must have bagged at least a dozen of our chaps," he calculated, gazing at the thin spiral of smoke rising straight in the still air. "Well, he's gone, thank the Lord! We got Hans yesterday and Karl the day before. I must have a pot at old Hermann. If we bag him, we might hope for a quiet life."
Lennard nodded. Each German sniper—if he survived a day or two—gained an individuality and a name. Hermann was especially dangerous, lurking somewhere in a ruined cottage between the lines where they bent away from each other. He rarely fired except to kill, and hid so well that numerous patrols had failed to discover his lair.
The two subalterns chatted over their cigarettes as the red gold of the western sky faded into rose. They spoke of mess and trench incidents, magnified by their isolation from the main stream of life, and then of things that had once been important in London, now dwindled and remote. A year ago Lennard had been a critic who was read; Wilson, the tall subaltern, a painter whose first success hung on the line. Both were products of what they proudly called civilisation. As they talked, old scenes returned, overshadowing the present. At last Wilson rose, responding to an inner sense of time.
"Well, so long, old thing," he said, standing and straightening his tall frame, weary from so much bending. The momentary forgetfulness was fatal.
A rifle cracked, and the lanky subaltern collapsed as though his knees had been knocked from under him."My God!" cried Lennard, paralyzed by this brutally tragic reassertion of his environment. Trembling, heart seeming to stop, he bent to his friend. He touched mere clothed flesh, heavy and inert, on which flies had already settled. They buzzed away, indignant at being disturbed. A madness of anger at this wanton annihilation of a life that was not just dull living but an irradiation of spirit, symbol of civilisation, swept over him. He burst into a torrent of curses.
"That was 'Ermann, sir," said the observer at the periscope. "I spotted the flash, in among them bricks."
Lennard rose, fiercely vengeful. "Let me look. Where did you see the flash?"
"Three o'clock from that bit of greenstuff in the middle, sir," replied the man, giving way. "You'll see a dark spot—that's 'is loophole."
Lennard peered into the mirror. There was enough light to see the spot. "Very good." He strode, bent-backed, down the trench, muttering.
It was night when, rifle in hand, he swung himself over the parapet. He lay flat on the ground, not moving. Overhead, rifles and machine guns kept up a fusillade against the heap of bricks. From dusk, he had arranged constant enfilading fire on the sniper's lair. He would not let Hermann slip away—yet.
He raised his head slightly, fixed his bearings, then, still prone, began to crawl through the wire. A German flare shot up, dazzling with ghastly light. He lay motionless. As it faded, he saw his course clearly. He aimed for a point in front of the German wire, from which he could enfilade the gap between the ruins and the enemy parapet. The British fire continued overhead; it would not cease for nearly fifteen minutes. Meanwhile Hermann would be lying low. He cut and wrenched at the wire, grimly ignoring the barbs that tore his clothes.
Again and again, flares stopped his progress. At each illumination, he lay as still as the bundles of old clothes he sometimes pushed against. The British parapet flashed, and a sympathetic crackling arose to the right.
At last he settled into a firing position in the long damp grass. An insect, unaware of the death overhead, crawled across his cheek.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-f086397d77f64925a2bc24bc58d1cacf
# book_title: Culture
# chapter_id: 1-culture
# chapter_title: Culture
# book_page: 4 / 6
# chapter_page: 4
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"My God!" cried Lennard, paralyzed by this brutally tragic reassertion of his environment. Trembling, heart seeming to stop, he bent to his friend. He touched mere clothed flesh, heavy and inert, on which flies had already settled. They buzzed away, indignant at being disturbed. A madness of anger at this wanton annihilation of a life that was not just dull living but an irradiation of spirit, symbol of civilisation, swept over him. He burst into a torrent of curses.
"That was 'Ermann, sir," said the observer at the periscope. "I spotted the flash, in among them bricks."
Lennard rose, fiercely vengeful. "Let me look. Where did you see the flash?"
"Three o'clock from that bit of greenstuff in the middle, sir," replied the man, giving way. "You'll see a dark spot—that's 'is loophole."
Lennard peered into the mirror. There was enough light to see the spot. "Very good." He strode, bent-backed, down the trench, muttering.
It was night when, rifle in hand, he swung himself over the parapet. He lay flat on the ground, not moving. Overhead, rifles and machine guns kept up a fusillade against the heap of bricks. From dusk, he had arranged constant enfilading fire on the sniper's lair. He would not let Hermann slip away—yet.
He raised his head slightly, fixed his bearings, then, still prone, began to crawl through the wire. A German flare shot up, dazzling with ghastly light. He lay motionless. As it faded, he saw his course clearly. He aimed for a point in front of the German wire, from which he could enfilade the gap between the ruins and the enemy parapet. The British fire continued overhead; it would not cease for nearly fifteen minutes. Meanwhile Hermann would be lying low. He cut and wrenched at the wire, grimly ignoring the barbs that tore his clothes.
Again and again, flares stopped his progress. At each illumination, he lay as still as the bundles of old clothes he sometimes pushed against. The British parapet flashed, and a sympathetic crackling arose to the right.
At last he settled into a firing position in the long damp grass. An insect, unaware of the death overhead, crawled across his cheek.Crack—crack—crack! The last British rifles ceased. An instant's stillness, then another flare from the German trench. It fell, sizzling, illuminating the ruins he watched with all senses focused. Then darkness, silence.
Minute after minute dragged in a dead hush. Finger on trigger, every fibre tense, the prone figure waited. A primeval self awoke—a savage who stalked and could wait indefinitely. His senses were keen as if drugged. A grim, patient lust to kill reigned.
Time passed slowly. He felt the moment approaching, his attention acute. The trigger seemed to press his finger. Was that movement by the ruin? Why did the flare he ordered not go up? He prayed desperately, holding his breath, straining to see.
Suddenly the flare shot up. Perception and trigger pressure were instantaneous.
A running, stooping figure pitched forward before the flame from his rifle.
Immediately, a vicious fire from the German parapet answered. The slayer lay still, listening to bullets thudding into the earth around him. A bomb fell, bursting so close he marvelled at his escape. He choked down a cough from the fumes.
Rifle fire at night is infectious. A sporadic duel sputtered up and down the trenches. Finally a distant gun sent a shell, and, as if obedient, the rifles fell silent one by one. The trenches lay in darkness and quiet.
Assuring himself all was still, the subaltern crawled to the body, lay beside it, and quickly searched the dead man's pockets, stuffing papers into his own. Then, carrying both rifles, he crawled back, climbed over his parapet, and lay down. In moments he slept.
Bright morning. A lark sang high above. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, saw the two rifles, and remembered with a smile. Nearby, a man heated coffee over a flame. He asked for some and drank, savoring the warmth of his living body. Then he remembered the papers. Sipping coffee, he read a letter among them.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-f086397d77f64925a2bc24bc58d1cacf
# book_title: Culture
# chapter_id: 1-culture
# chapter_title: Culture
# book_page: 5 / 6
# chapter_page: 5
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Crack—crack—crack! The last British rifles ceased. An instant's stillness, then another flare from the German trench. It fell, sizzling, illuminating the ruins he watched with all senses focused. Then darkness, silence.
Minute after minute dragged in a dead hush. Finger on trigger, every fibre tense, the prone figure waited. A primeval self awoke—a savage who stalked and could wait indefinitely. His senses were keen as if drugged. A grim, patient lust to kill reigned.
Time passed slowly. He felt the moment approaching, his attention acute. The trigger seemed to press his finger. Was that movement by the ruin? Why did the flare he ordered not go up? He prayed desperately, holding his breath, straining to see.
Suddenly the flare shot up. Perception and trigger pressure were instantaneous.
A running, stooping figure pitched forward before the flame from his rifle.
Immediately, a vicious fire from the German parapet answered. The slayer lay still, listening to bullets thudding into the earth around him. A bomb fell, bursting so close he marvelled at his escape. He choked down a cough from the fumes.
Rifle fire at night is infectious. A sporadic duel sputtered up and down the trenches. Finally a distant gun sent a shell, and, as if obedient, the rifles fell silent one by one. The trenches lay in darkness and quiet.
Assuring himself all was still, the subaltern crawled to the body, lay beside it, and quickly searched the dead man's pockets, stuffing papers into his own. Then, carrying both rifles, he crawled back, climbed over his parapet, and lay down. In moments he slept.
Bright morning. A lark sang high above. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, saw the two rifles, and remembered with a smile. Nearby, a man heated coffee over a flame. He asked for some and drank, savoring the warmth of his living body. Then he remembered the papers. Sipping coffee, he read a letter among them."Dearest Wife and Sweetheart," it read, "I don't altogether like the hatred of these Englishmen. They do their duty as we do ours, and they fight well. Would that all this killing were over and we were friends again! It is in a sacred cause—we could not let our culture be stifled—but the sacrifices are heavy. I sometimes wonder if the old days will return when I once more write songs for you to sing in London and Paris. I can faintly hear a nightingale, or is it you? I must close now, as I am ordered off to a dangerous post, and dawn will soon break. All the love of Karl."
Lennard, curious, looked at the envelope. The name was familiar. Karl—a songwriter whose tunes his wife loved to sing. He sat thoughtfully for a moment, then sighed and rose.
Instantly, a bullet smacked against the sandbags, missing his head by inches.
"Bad shot," he murmured as he ducked. "Lucky thing I bagged old Hermann!"
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-f086397d77f64925a2bc24bc58d1cacf
# book_title: Culture
# chapter_id: 1-culture
# chapter_title: Culture
# book_page: 6 / 6
# chapter_page: 6
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"Dearest Wife and Sweetheart," it read, "I don't altogether like the hatred of these Englishmen. They do their duty as we do ours, and they fight well. Would that all this killing were over and we were friends again! It is in a sacred cause—we could not let our culture be stifled—but the sacrifices are heavy. I sometimes wonder if the old days will return when I once more write songs for you to sing in London and Paris. I can faintly hear a nightingale, or is it you? I must close now, as I am ordered off to a dangerous post, and dawn will soon break. All the love of Karl."
Lennard, curious, looked at the envelope. The name was familiar. Karl—a songwriter whose tunes his wife loved to sing. He sat thoughtfully for a moment, then sighed and rose.
Instantly, a bullet smacked against the sandbags, missing his head by inches.
"Bad shot," he murmured as he ducked. "Lucky thing I bagged old Hermann!"
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