Waking up early in the morning on the blanket bed on the floor of the
dugout and taking a first peek through the sandbagged entrance, it was
plain that our best hopes were going to be realized and that it would
be a clear day with good visibility. The sun had not yet appeared, but
the clouds were few and the early light showed every feature of the
country. Here and there were dark dots denoting the waiting batteries,
while sausage balloons were already swinging overhead.
In the messroom the commanding General sat at breakfast, cleanly shaven
and unworried, although he had been on the front line most of the
night. This General, who was in immediate command, talked not about
the attack, but about the censorship, tactfully choosing the favorite
subject of every correspondent.
By this time the artillery had started, so we went out along the road
toward the front, passing a line of ambulances parked under the trees.
The further we went along the road the more frequent became the flashes
of the explosions on either side, but thus far not a single boche shell
had come in and the sounds overhead were all caused by the familiar
rushing of our shells and none by the whistle of the boche shells.
Some distance up the road was a vantage spot whence we got a clear view
of Cantigny, or the spot where it had been. It was a picture terrible
in its grandeur. Cantigny might have been a volcano in eruption
shooting up clouds that were first white, then brown, then black, while
above the air was filled with spiral shaped black clouds of exploding
shrapnel.