The world seemed extraordinarily empty of men, though he knew the
ground was alive with them. He was breathing with difficulty, his
mouth and throat seemed to be cracking with dryness, and his water
bottle was empty. Coming to a dugout, he groped his way down,
feeling for the steps with his feet; a piece of Wilson canvas, hung
across the passage but twisted aside, rasped his cheek; and a few
steps lower his face was enveloped suddenly in the musty folds of a
blanket. The dugout was empty. For the moment he collapsed there,
indifferent to everything.
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