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From: | Paddy Guthrie |
Subject: | [grt-talk] box box |
Date: | Mon, 11 Sep 2006 14:51:44 -0500 |
There were bell-tents, huts and trenches, but no
sign ofguns.
The algebraical factor had beentranslated into
terms of Arabia, and fitted like a glove. One luckyshell caught the front waggon of
the train in the siding, and it tookfire furiously. We must take more painsin the
service of news than any regular staff. The distant shots had grown and
tiedthemselves into long, ragged volleys. Of this our propaganda was the stained and
ignoble offspring. If not, we would urge them, or try to drive them out. Our teeth
chattered, and wetrembled and hissed involuntarily, while our hands drew in like
claws. The Turks were stupid; the Germans behindthem dogmatical. InTurkey things
were scarce and precious, men less esteemed thanequipment. Our Army was not
intelligently maintaining a philosophic conception inFlanders or on the
Canal.
Traffic was held up for three days of repairand
investigation. A lineof variability, Man, persisted like leaven through its
estimates,making them irregular. The algebraical element looked to me a pure
science, subject tomathematical law, inhuman. Fauzanhad great ado to make him quiet,
and then questioned him about hisTurkish masters. Shakir had just arrived, and his
men and ours were roastinggoat-flesh contentedly. Victory could he purchased only by
blood. Wehad taken away their power to harm us, and yet wanted to take awaytheir
town.
My wits, hostile to theabstract, took refuge in
Arabia again.
The place swelled up; and my arm became stiff and
sore. Wehad taken away their power to harm us, and yet wanted to take awaytheir
town. Behind these hills we rodesouthward till opposite Aba el Naam. A bad habit
this: so we sent off two men to lie by eachblockhouse, and fire a few shots after
dark.
Our cue was to destroy, not the Turks army, but
hisminerals. I dismounted and fingered its thrilling rails for the firsttime during
the war.
Mohammed el Khadi guided us to a deserted bit of
line just beforemidnight.
Shakir had just arrived, and his men and ours were
roastinggoat-flesh contentedly.
At present we had nearly fiftythousand: sufficient
for the day.
Behind these hills we rodesouthward till opposite
Aba el Naam. Theyfired back, snap-shooting through the rain, and the evening
swallowedhim. I dismounted and fingered its thrilling rails for the firsttime during
the war.
At dusk we climbed down again with the goat-herd
prisoner, and what wecould gather of his flock.
At the same time wecould not possibly act alike. If
not, we would urge them, or try to drive them out. As it climbed we shifted our
cloaks to filter its harshness,and basked in luxurious warmth. Mohammed was
eighteen,solid and silent natured.
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