I call, I lean toward him, I swipe at him with the satchel, he doesn’t see⁠—once again, again⁠—he merely ducks⁠—it’s a recruit⁠—I look at Kat desperately, he has his mask on⁠—I pull out mine, too, my helmet falls to one side, it slips over my face, I reach the man, his satchel is on the side nearest me, I seize the mask, pull it over his head, he understands, I let go and with a jump drop into the shell-hole.

The dull thud of the gas-shells mingles with the crashes of the light explosives. A bell sounds between the explosions, gongs, and metal clappers warning everyone⁠—Gas⁠—Gas⁠—Gaas.

Someone plumps down behind me, another. I wipe the goggles of my mask clear of the moist breath. It is Kat, Kropp, and someone else. All four of us lie there in heavy, watchful suspense and breathe as lightly as possible.

These first minutes with the mask decide between life and death: is it airtight? I remember the awful sights in the hospital: the gas patients who in daylong suffocation cough up their burnt lungs in clots.