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然而，未等到己方炸弹的援助，土耳其人的炸弹就向他们袭来。士兵们爬起来，用手抓住尚未引爆的炸弹，反向扔回土耳其人的队伍。有的士兵手被炸掉，有的头被炸飞，但这种逮住炸弹扔回敌营的血的游戏一直进行着，最终炸光了暗道里的土耳其人，仅剩下几个被炸伤的在暗道里呻吟流血，慢慢死去。过了很久，援兵终于到达，炮火开始连续轰炸小树林。战壕里余下的士兵们喊着冲进前方黑暗的松树林，却遭到林中狙击手的袭击，四处都是机关枪的扫射。士兵们倒的倒，死的死，而幸存者看不到敌人，只见到战友们倒下，前方无人生还。士兵们突然感到孤立无援，只见战友们的死去，不见敌人的踪影，而空中子弹喧嚣。他们于是返回战壕，不是出于恐惧，而是因为混乱。当他们清点力量的时候，突然响起土耳其人撕破天空的疯狂呐喊、震撼天际的铿锵誓言，随后土耳其人端着刺刀冲向他们。仅剩下的一个排的士兵们迅猛反击，机关枪像飞驰的摩托车般突突作响，连续开火。土耳其人发出咒骂声和怪叫声，但是，他们绝路一条，有的死，有的仓皇撤退，却在转身中被自己人打死。傍晚时分到来，胆战心惊的白天终于过去了，士兵们向前推进了两百码的距离。他们请求援助和指令，如果幸运的话，还能够与同营的其他队伍取得联系，并在土耳其人的战壕里准备过夜。在五十码开外的地方，同营的那些队伍也经历了不同的紧张战斗。很快，他们接到远处司令部的命令（司令部在大概五百码以外的掩体内，相对而言，如同祥和的英格兰一样安全平静），告知没有增援，仍要不惜一切代价守住阵地，准备次日新的一轮挺进。夜幕降临，弹药和水送了上来，抬担架的人通过呻吟声寻找受伤的士兵。此时，土耳其人炮击整个战场，以阻杀实不存在的增援。有的士兵爬出战壕，露出半身，拉起防护的铁丝网，却中弹倒下。剩余的幸存者做好准备，抵抗即将到来的土耳其人的再次进攻。士兵们没有睡意，寒冷中也不可能入睡，只有瞪着夜空瑟瑟发抖，从尸体上剥下衣服御寒。漆黑的天上没有月亮，又下起了雨，战壕里的沙土变成了泥浆，只有枪弹连续击中的小块地方是干燥的。几个身心俱疲的士兵坠入梦乡却噩梦连连，不断抽搐着发出神经质的叫喊，仿佛做噩梦的狗儿。远处海面上的行船，对着山上看不清的目标开炮，那爆炸声撼动了周遭的空气。有人看到草中有动，开枪射击，其他人便跟着射击。整个战壕陆陆续续开火，机关枪展开扫射，士兵们叫骂着，后方则向着树林开火，以防敌人从背面进攻。慢慢地，枪声衰竭，土耳其散兵们爬了上来，向战壕投掷炸弹。
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（苗菊 译）
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32 THE HALF MILE
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By T. O. Beachcroft
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THE HALF MILE, by T.O.Beachcroft, in New Country , edited by Michael Roberts, London, Hogarth Press, 1933, pp. 72-85.
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T. O. Beachcroft is one of the younger writers of England.
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Saturday noon. The town-hall clock boomed the hour in the distance. All over the town hooters called to each other from street to street. From the gates of twenty different potteries men, women, boys, and girls streamed. Ones and twos grew to a steady flow, then died away again to ones and twos.
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Andrew Williamson, a dipper at the Royal Chorley, was stopped at the gate by old Jones the doorkeeper.
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“So long, Andrew,” he said, “good luck for the half mile.”
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Andrew glanced at him, and looked away self-consciously.
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“How did you know I was running?”
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“Oh, I takes an interest,” said Joe, “used to run a half mile myself.”
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“Go on?” said Andrew, “I never knew.”
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“I was good for one fifty-eight,” said the old man. “That was good going in those days.”
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“Go on?” said Andrew again, “but that’s class running. That’s a class half mile.”
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“Oh, I dunno, plenty on ‘em do it now!”
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“Well, I wish I could. That’s my ambition: to get inside two minutes, I’ve never beaten two four yet!”
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“Well, this is just the day for it,” the veteran told him. “You have a nice trot round first: get some good summer air into your lungs: you’ll win.”
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“But I’ve never run in a class race,” Andrew persisted. “I’ve only done Club races. I can’t hope for more’n a place; look who’s running.”
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“Who?” said Jones.
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“Well, there’s six of us in the final. Let’s see: Joe Brewster, the cross-country man, he can run a four thirty mile, and now he wants to try the half.”
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“Well, he’ll never do minutes,” said Jones,“take it from me.”
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“Then there’s Perry, him as ran at the ‘Three Clubs’ meet at Derby last week. He did two four then.”
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“Well, who else?”
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“There’s that Redbrooke, the Cambridge Blue. I ain’t got an earthly.”
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