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A Passionate Prodigality, Chapter 4

On a morning when light filtered through a bleached world, and a blanket of mist was spread upon the ground so that our eyes could only pierce to the edge of our own wire, the whole company seized the opportunity to repair the damages of shell fire. We worked furiously with muffled mauls and all the coils of wire we could beg. Presently we were aware that the enemy was doing as we were ; dull thuds and the chink and wrench of wire came from his side. We might perhaps have opened fire, but that suddenly there came out of the blankness the sound of a young voice. It was raised in some Dorian-moded folksong. High and high it rose, echoing and filling the mist, pure, too pure for this draggled hill-side. We stopped our work to listen. No one would have dared break the fragile echo. As we listened, the fog shifted a little, swayed and began to melt. We collected our tools and bundled back to our trench. The singing voice drew further off, as if it was only an emanation of the drifting void. The sun came out, and the familiar field of dirty grass with its hedges of wire and pickets rose to view, empty of life.

– Guy Chapman


last updated january 2017