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The sound I heard was the fate motif of the frantic opera of American endeavour. The truly wonderful thing was that I should hear it here, in a woodland in France the rapid tapping of a steel-riveter at work. I learnt afterwards that I was not the only one to be carried away by that music, as of a monstrous wood-pecker in an iron forest.
The first day the riveter was employed, the whole camp made excuses to come and listen to it. They stood round it in groups, deafened and thrilled and a little homesick. What the bag-pipe is to the Scotchman, the steel-riveter is to the American the instrument which best expresses his soul to a world which is different.
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