"Джон Пассос. One Man's Initiation: 1917 (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

and lots more that it hasn't been possible to print, that people have been
ashamed to tell."
"They've gone pretty far," said Martin, laughing.
"If there are any left alive after the war they ought to be
chloroformed. . . . And really I don't think it's patriotic or humane to
take the atrocities so lightly. . . . But really, you must excuse me if you
think me rude; I do get so excited and wrought up when I think of those
frightful things. . . . I get quite beside myself; I'm sure you do too, in
your heart. . . . Any red-blooded person would."
"Only I doubt . . ."
"But you're just playing into their hands if you do that. . . . Oh,
dear, I'm quite beside myself, just thinking of it." She raised a small
gloved hand to her pink cheek in a gesture of horror, and settled herself
comfortably in her deck chair. "Really, I oughtn't to talk about it. I lose
all self-control when I do. I hate them so it makes me quite ill. . . . The
curs! The Huns! Let me tell you just one story. . . . I know it'll make your
blood boil. It's absolutely authentic, too. I heard it before I left New
York from a girl who's really the best friend I have on earth. She got it
from a friend of hers who had got it directly from a little Belgian girl,
poor little thing, who was in the convent at the time. . . . Oh, I don't see
why they ever take any prisoners; I'd kill them all like mad dogs."
"What's the story?"
"Oh, I can't tell it. It upsets me too much. . . . No, that's silly,
I've got to begin facing realities. . . . It was just when the Germans were
taking Bruges, the Uhlans broke into this convent. . . . But I think it was
in Louvain, not Bruges. . . . I have a wretched memory for names. . . .
Well, they broke in, and took all those poor defenceless little girls . . ."
"There's the dinner-bell."
"Oh, so it is. I must run and dress. I'll have to tell you later. . .
."
Through half-closed eyes, Martin watched the fluttering dress and the
backs of the neat little white shoes go jauntily down the deck.



The smoking-room again. Clink of glasses and chatter of confident
voices. Two men talking over their glasses.
"They tell me that Paris is some city."
"The most immoral place in the world, before the war. Why, there are
houses there where . . ." his voice sank into a whisper. The other man burst
into loud guffaws.
"But the war's put an end to all that. They tell me that French people
are regenerated, positively regenerated."
"They say the lack of food's something awful, that you can't get a
square meal. They even eat horse."
"Did you hear what those fellows were saying about that new gas? Sounds
frightful, don't it? I don't care a thing about bullets, but that kind o'
gives me cold feet... . . I don't give a damn about bullets, but that gas. .
. ."
"That's why so many shoot their friends when they're gassed. . . . "