Pages 244-245, "Here is Your War," by Ernie Pyle
Another plane throbbed in the sky, and we lay listening with
an awful anticipation. One of the dogs suddenly broke into a frenzied barking
and went tearing through our little camp as if chasing a demon. My mind seemed
to lose all sense of proportion, and I got jumpy and mad at myself.
Concussion ghosts, traveling in waves, touched our tent
walls and made them quiver. Ghosts were shaking the ground ever so lightly.
Ghosts were stirring the dogs to hysteria. Ghosts were wandering in the sky
peering for us cringing in our hide-outs. Ghosts were everywhere, and their
hordes were multiplying as every hour added its production of new battlefield
dead.
We lay and thought of the graveyards and the dirty men and
the shocking blast of the big guns, and we couldn’t sleep.
“What time is it?” came out of darkness from the next cot. I
snapped on the flashlight.
“Half past four, and for [expletive] sake go to sleep!”
Finally just before dawn we did sleep, in spite of
everything.
Next morning, we spoke around among ourselves and found that
all of us had tossed away all night. It was an unexplainable thing. For all of
us had been through greater danger. On another night the roll of the guns would
have lulled us to sleep.
It was just that on some nights the air became sick and
there was an unspoken contagion of spiritual dread, and we were little boys
again, lost in the dark.
Fear without using the word. Fear through repetition of
congruous imagery. Fear that brings us back to that world of little boys,
spooked in the familiar surroundings of their neighborhood, their back yard, by
an unexpected light or shadow or sound that ordinarily would not have bothered
them. For me, the sound is that of a cat in heat. Never bothered me during the
day, but at night, that eerie cry like that of a baby, bothered me terribly.
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