My parents were country people, born some hundreds of miles apart-a distance filled with difficulties, strange complexities, jumbled frontiers, and sentiments which were equivalent but untranslatable. There are the tragic, unbelievable visions, which carry from one moment of nausea to another: guts splattered across the rubble and sprayed from one dying man to another tightly riveted machines ripped like the belly of a cow which has just been sliced open, flaming and groaning trees broken into tiny fragments gaping windows pouring out torrents of billowing dust, dispersing into oblivion all that remains of a comfortable parlor.” And there are the cries of the wounded, of the agonizingly dying, shrieking as they stare at a part of their body reduced to pulp, the cries of men touched by the shock of battle before everybody else, who run in any and every direction, howling like banshees. There is nothing but the rhythm of explosions, more or less distant, more or less violent, and the cries of madmen, to be classified later, according to the outcome of the battle, as the cries of heroes or of murderers. It is difficult even to even to try to remember moments during which nothing is considered, foreseen, or understood, when there is nothing under a steel helmet but an astonishingly empty head and a pair of eyes which translate nothing more than would the eyes of an animal facing mortal danger.
“What happened next? I retain nothing from those terrible minutes except indistinct memories which flash into my mind with sudden brutality, like apparitions, among bursts and scenes and visions that are scarcely imaginable.
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