...of the war-machine

He received a shock, last week, reaching the fifth floor in the southern wing, which he had somewhat neglected until then, pushing open the elevator door and discovering a very long narrow workshop under the roof, at the threshold of which, at first glance, something unusual stopped him.
Silence. No machines, and nobody talking along the two rows of men seated on either side of an enormous table, fifty or so men checking the uniformity of the manufactured parts, gauge in hand, after inspection decanting them from one box to the other, and nothing but the multiplied tinkling of the metal objects, a diffuse rustling, uninterrupted, filling the premises.
Taken aback, Martin observes the mute workers stationed face to face in the poorly lit workshop, the skylights in the roof allowing only a dim glow to filter in. Then drawing near, notices that they are looking straight ahead, heads erect, don't look at their hands moving very rapidly as if self-driven, mechanically, don't look at anything, the men are blind.
He remains fixed to the spot, in disbelief, and two of the men, those closest, turn their heads toward him, without slowing down the back-and-forth motion of their hands, without saying a word, turn their eyes toward him.
Martin withdrew, noiselessly, went back to the elevator, closed the door and stayed there a moment without thinking to go down, thought that those men in the shadows were checking weapons, shell parts no doubt, validating them with their hands, bomb parts that were soon going to explode, that were going pierce and to mutilate, to burn hands, eyes, to blind, to lacerate, one generation of the blind mutilating the next, blinding them, from one war to the next, from one new process of mutilation to the next, a technique of blinding, of subjection, hands always moving back and forth, mechanically, without recourse, without end.
He spoke to no one in the workshop of the blind. Doesn't know why, dreads perhaps that hearing this, someone would break out laughing.
Or snickering: this is what they're reduced to.
As if the war here mobilised only the blind.

[Disconnection, Ollier, C.]