In a corner of the turnip field close up to the road were mounds of
fresh-turned clay, and so many of them were there and so closely were
they spaced and for so considerable a distance did they stretch along,
they made two long yellow ribs above the herbage. At close intervals
small wooden crosses were stuck up in the rounded combs of earth so that
the crosses formed a sort of irregular fence. A squad of soldiers were
digging more holes in the tough earth. Their shovel blades flashed in
the sunlight and the clods flew up in showers.
"We have many buried over there," said an artillery captain, seeing that
I watched the grave diggers, "a general among them and other officers.
It is there we bury those who die in the Institute hospital. Every day
more die, and so each morning trenches are made ready for those who will
die during that day. A good friend of mine is over there; he was buried
day before yesterday. I sat up late last night writing to his wife--or
perhaps I should say his widow.
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