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Updated: May 13, 2025
In the front-line trenches a number of men were busy with some long, narrow cylinders, which had been carried up a day before. They were arranging them in the mud of the parapets with their nozles facing the enemy lines. "That's the stuff to give them!" "What is it?" "Poison-gas. Worse than they used at Ypres." "Christ!... supposing we have to walk through it?" "We shall walk behind it.
The unwounded, startled by the silence, became aware of some moisture falling on them; thick, oily drops of liquid. "What in hell's name ?" said a subaltern. One man smelled his clothes, which reeked of something like paraffin. Coming across from the German trenches were men hunched up under some heavy weights. They were carrying cylinders with nozles like hose-pipes.
Perceiving that Pierre was serving it, however, he offered his own glass, and enjoyed a delicious instant, as he swallowed a beverage that much surpassed any thing he had ever known to issue out of the waxed and leaded nozles that, pointed like so many enemies' batteries, loaded with headaches and disordered stomachs, garnished sundry village bars of his acquaintance.
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