For two days now the bombardment had continued, heaving over the
live, huge shells that broke in the distance with a dull, sullen
fury. Lightly it had begun, and with an exchange of salutes from the
six-inch rifles. Then a number of batteries in the centre of the sector
started ferociously to bark. Along the left the heavy detonation of the
exploding shells was taken up, later to be joined by the smaller pieces
of artillery, which went off with mad, snapping sounds. The guns on the
right brought the entire line into action.
Artillerymen, their blouses off, their sleeves rolled, sweated in
torrents as they wrestled with shells, throwing them into the breeches
of their guns. Each gun was fired, and as it recoiled from the charge
another shell was waiting to be thrown into the breech. The officers
of the gunners, their muscles tense, their lineaments screwed up so
that their faces looked like white walnuts, made quick mathematical
calculations, directing the shells unerringly to strike their targets.
Orderlies hurried from gun-pit to gun-pit, carrying messages from a
higher officer which, when delivered to the battery commanders and passed
to the gunners, would strike or spare a hundred men, an old church, or a
hospital.
Wagons and heavy motor-trucks rumbled over the roads leading to the
forests where the long-range guns were hidden, bringing always more food
for the black, extended throats of the guns. The batteries in the centre
had been drawn up in a thick woods a few miles from the present front
line. There, from the height of a steady swell in the earth, they were
able better to watch the effects of their pounding.
Between the inky mass of forest which concealed the guns and the
jagged front line were the crumbling ruins of a village of which not a
building now stood. The ruins were at the edge of the front line, which
zigzagged unendingly in either direction. Barbed wire, rusted and ragged,
was strung from posts before the trench. Chevaux-de-frise, inspiring
confidence in their ability to withstand penetration, were placed at
intervals, wherever gaps had been blown in the barbed wire.
The space between the front line and the German listening posts was a
yellowish gray. Its face was pockmarked and scabbed with tin cans,
helmets, pieces of equipment. Bones, grayed in the sun and rain, were
perceptible occasionally. A leather boot stuck grotesquely out of one
of the unhealthy indentations in the lifeless ground. The flat chrome
earth lay for several hundreds of yards and then was split by a strip of
shadowy black woods.
Past the woods the barren earth continued, rising and disappearing at a
distance, in a hill studded with trees.
Beyond lay mystery and a gargantuan demon who, taking whatever shape
he chose, might descend with a huge funnelled bag from which he might
extract any number of fascinatingly varied deaths.
The night before, out of a still, starlit sky, a sudden rain had fallen.
It had drenched the trees and the grass and soaked the clothing of the
troops who were lying in the woods awaiting the hour for the attack. The
rain made a long, slimy, muddy snake out of the roads leading to the
front line. Where the caisson tracks had bitten into the ground, hasty
rivulets now ran. Water from the evenly plotted fields had drained into
the ditch that ran alongside the road, overflowing.
Bandoliers of ammunition slung over their shoulders, their pockets
stuffed with heavy corrugated hand-grenades, carrying shovels and picks,
the platoon followed along the muddy road in rear of a machine-gun
company. Rudely awakened from an irresistible sleep beneath the trees,
they had been marshalled before supply wagons, had been given articles of
extra equipment to use in the attack. Now, whenever the body of troops
before them halted, the lids closed readily over their sleepy eyes and
their bodies swayed with fatigue. The halts were frequent, for the
machine-gunners carried their heavy rifles and tripods on their shoulders.
The road was slippery and the travel laborious, and after innumerable
pauses whenever the advancing line became clogged, the men sat down,
completely fatigued, in the mud and water. Uneasiness could be felt
in the tightly packed mass that waddled along the road. It lay on the
tongues of the platoon, preventing them from showing their exasperation
at the long delay. Curses would rise to their lips and die unuttered.
A word spoken aloud, the jangling of metal, would infuriate them. From
fear and habit, the explosion of a gun near them would cause them to
stop, standing without a tremor. A distance of less than two miles,
the platoon crawled along like an attenuated turtle. They felt that
dawn would find them still on the road, their feet struggling with the
clinging mud. The night was as thick and black as coal-tar. Progress
through it seemed impossible.
* * * * *
Behind the barely moving lines the guns continued their _boom, boom_,
like the sound of distant thunder. The shells whistled overhead, the
report of their explosion only faintly to be heard. There was no
retaliation. The enemy seemed willing to take the brunt without a murmur.
But to the platoon their silence was suspicious. Accustomed to hearing
the crashing reply to a bombardment, when the men did not hear it they
grew fearful. They began to wonder if they were not being led into a
trap. Fed too fully upon the German-spy propaganda issued by the Allied
governments, they wondered whether the general directing the attack might
not be a minion of the Kaiser, leading them to their deaths. Or else the
Germans were planning some great strategic coup.
The failure of the enemy guns to reply was so annoying that it became
the absorbing notion in the minds of the men. Their ears were strained,
waiting to hear the familiar whine of a shell fired toward them. It made
their nerves feel ragged and exposed. On the road sounded the decisive
beat of horses’ hoofs. It was deeply perturbing. Stretching their necks,
unmindful of the slippery road, the danger of sliding into the ditch, the
men watched the horse and rider, believing it portentous. The horse was
turned back to the woods.
Like a latrine built for a corps of monsters stretched the slippery
trench. Approaching it through the narrow communication gully, the men
slid and stumbled from the slatted-board bottom into the mire. They would
withdraw their legs from the mud, the mud making a “pflung” as the foot
rose above it.
The platoon filed into the trench, and crouched low against the firing
bays their bayonets peeping over the top. After hours on the road the
trench was warm to their bodies, despite its mud and slime. Their eyes
staring into the black night, the men waited.
Hard, cold, and unfriendly dawn broke over the earth like a thin coating
of ice shattering in a wash-basin. In the eerie light the tangled masses
of wire, the weather-beaten posts from which the wire was strung, the
articles of equipment and clothing once worn by men looked unreal. The
woods ahead, a grayish black, lay against the sky like a spiked wall.
Hicks, his face pressed against the muddy side of the trench, felt sick.
Along the road his body had been shaken with chills. Now the muscles of
his stomach were contracting, forcing him to gag. He thought of poking
his soiled finger down his throat, but the thought of it was so revolting
that he only gagged more violently.
Crouching there, he had no desire to leave the trench. Why should he
leave it, he asked himself, and could find no reason. Possibly for an
hour during his whole life he had hated the German army. Now he only
disliked them. And for one reason: because they marched in a goose-step.
He felt that for any people to march in that manner was embarrassing to
the rest of humanity. Somehow it severed them from the rest of their
kind. But that was little reason, he realized, to drag his weary body
over a repulsive ground. He was conscious of a sensation of numbness.
“Je’s, I’m sick,” he groaned to the man next to him. “I don’t know
whether I can go over. I’m all in.”
“Why don’t you go back? Tell one of the officers. He’ll send you back.”
“Yeh. And have every one of you birds think I’m yellow? I _will_ not.
I’ll be all right,” he added.
The roar of the guns deepened. A heavy curtain of exploding shells lay
between the platoon and the German lines. The barrage lifted and started
to move.
Whistles were imperatively blown along the trench, commanding the men to
rise and begin the advance. As if it were their last mortal act, the men
clambered out of the trench and started to walk.
* * * * *
Bent over, like a feeble old man, Hicks walked abreast of the first wave.
His respirator hung heavily from around his neck. He clutched at his
collar, loosening it more freely to breathe. His legs were made of wood,
they felt light, but hesitated to bend. His nostrils were being flattened
against his face by huge, unseen thumbs. “Hell, Heaven, or Hoboken by
Christmas,” he thought, adding “Probably hell for all of us.”
The day brightened, and as he approached the trees they became separate
identities. The trees stared at him menacingly. They embarrassed him
by their scrutiny. He found himself making excuses for advancing toward
them. It was exasperating that no bullets were fired from the trees. He
wondered why it could be. And then he was at the woods, entering with the
rest of the men, and the underbrush parted with a crackling sound. He
drew back, frightened.
Because of the thickness of the underbrush and the irregularity of the
setting of the trees, he veered off to a path that led through the woods.
On it other men had made their way and were stealthily tramping through,
their eyes darting from one side to the other.
At a place where another path crossed, an ammunition wagon stood. The
bodies of four horses lay dead on the ground, their hides mutilated,
pierced by pieces of flying shell. The dead horses were a squeamish
sight, lying there with large reproachful eyes and slender necks that
seemed to have been broken. Their stomachs were inflated as if they had
eaten too much fresh clover. Hicks grew more depressed, his own stomach
wanted to describe a parabola inside of him. Hicks gagged, engaged in
a spasm of retching. The woods were covered with saffron, their trunks
were gaunt, and yellow splotches stuck out from the branches. The grass
wore a bilious complexion. He looked down at his shoes; they, too, were
yellow, unfamiliar, indefinable from the color of his puttees or his
mustard uniform.
He tramped on through the woods, hoping that his sickness would overpower
him, cast him to the ground where he could rest.
“If only I’d get so sick I couldn’t walk,” he thought, “how nice it would
be.”
He walked on, thinking of the spot in which he would like to lie, judging
with a discerning eye the softness and safety of various spots of ground.
The sight of a small hollow, with breastworks of fallen trees thrown up
on the dangerous side, was attractive to him. He was about to succumb,
but decided against it, thinking of the awkwardness of his position in
case some one should pass. And they were sure to pass, some snooping
lieutenant or orderly.
But he was supposed to be in an attack. Pugh and the rest were facing the
enemy at this very moment. And here he was lagging behind! Choking with
fright, he hurried out of the woods. The rest of the line had just broken
through the trees and now he joined them as they marched steadily ahead.
The field over which they were advancing stretched like a gridiron for
perhaps a mile, then it was lost in the thickly wooded hill that rose
majestically and invincibly. “God,” Hicks thought, “do we have to take
that hill?” It was inconceivable that it could be done, yet inconceivable
that it would not be done. There it rose—a Gethsemane—towering in the
air, austere and forbidding.
Below, four waves of men with their bayoneted rifles held at high port,
advanced along the flat field toward the hill. Hicks felt weak, as if he
wanted to crumple up. Machine bullets clicked like keys on the typewriter
of the devil’s stenographer. Rifled bullets announced their swift, fatal
flights by little “pings” that sounded like air escaping from a rubber
tire. They seemed to follow each other closely enough to make a solid
sheet of metal.
Slowly the men marched, trying to maintain an even line under the rapid
firing. Silently and unexpectedly a whistle blew and the long lines
dropped to the ground. For the distance they had advanced their losses
were too great.
To lie down in the face of the firing was more unendurable than moving
toward it. The bodies of the men felt to them more conspicuous than
when they were on their feet. They tried to hug the ground, to expose as
little of themselves as they could.
“What the hell are we going to do? Go to sleep here?”
“No, they’re lookin’ for the Angel of Mons to tell us when to advance.”
“This is an awful way to win a war. Are they tryin’ to get us all killed?”
“Oh, one of these German spies is in command, that’s all.”
So ran the comment of the men, interspersed with cries of assistance from
the wounded. At last the whistles blew again and the men rose to their
feet, chafing, half-frightened, half-angry, under the restraint of the
regulated advance. One man started ahead of the line and an officer,
raising his voice above the frightful racket, yelled:
“Come back here, you damned fool. Do you want to get killed by your own
barrage?”
The barrage was falling short of its mark. Shells struck the fringe of
the woods toward which the men already had closely advanced.
An avion sailed over the field, a serene, self-satisfied dove of peace.
The pilot fired a rocket when he was directly above the front line,
and wheeled back. The barrage lengthened, the shells crashing into the
trees. But if the barrage had delayed their progress on the field, it had
hastened it in the woods. The coils of barbed wire which had been strung
before the German front-line trench were blown to bits. Great gaps in
the wire appeared all along the line. The men rushed through, fell into
the trench, and scrambled out the other side. The German trench had been
abandoned. The main body of their troops was withdrawn and the hill had
been protected only by a heavy rear-guard.
Through the woods men were running like mad, beating small, inoffensive
bushes with the butts of their rifles, and calling: “Come out of there,
you damned Boche.” Wherever they saw a dugout they hurled a pocketful
of hand-grenades down the entrance, following them with threatening
exclamations. They were the new men who had joined the platoon at the
last village at which it had been billeted.
* * * * *
It was a night for love, a night for beautifully mantillaed women to rest
their elbows on the window casement of picturesque houses and lend their
ears to the serenade of their troubadours—a night to wander listlessly
through unreal woods and offer words of love beneath the benediction of a
round moon.
Through a long, tortuous trench which, now and again, had been partially
obliterated by the explosion of a large shell, Hicks tramped. He had been
sent out by the platoon commander to find the French army, whose left
flank was supposed, according to orders issued before the attack, to
adjoin the right of the platoon. Picking his way through the barbed wire
over the rough ground, he swung along with large strides. Importantly
he adjusted the strap of his helmet more tightly about his chin. He
girded his pistol belt tighter, until his waist was wasp-like. To his
leg he buckled his holster until it interfered with the circulation of
his blood. He liked the feel of the pistol against his thigh. It made
him feel equal to any danger. He was a Buffalo Bill, a Kit Carson, a
D’Artagnan.
Progress, walking in the trench, was too dreary for his mood. He climbed
out and commenced to stride along the field, his chest inflated, his chin
high. He thought of the men lying along the trench, huddled together,
three men under one blanket, and he felt motherly toward them. He
thought of the Allied armies waiting for the war to be over, so that they
might return to their homes and children, and he felt protective toward
them. He thought of President Wilson, bearing the burden of the saving
of civilization on his thin, scholarly shoulders, and he felt paternal
toward him. Hicks it was who had been ordered to find the French army,
to link it up with the American army so that there might be no gaps in
the ranks when the attack began on the morrow. He walked on and on and
somehow in the dim light he lost the direction of the trench.
The blasted French army was not going to be as easy to find as he had
imagined. He had now walked much farther than he had been told to walk,
and still there was no sight or sound of them. A little farther on his
attention became divided between the French army and the trench. If he
lost the direction of the trench, how could he find the army, he thought.
Out of the stillness of the night a Maxim sputtered. Hicks started, then
ran as swiftly as he could. He fell into the trench, quite breathless.
Feeling forlorn, he crept along the trench, with all his native cunning.
After he had been walking he knew not how long, a form was vaguely seen
to move ahead. Hicks halted. “Français soldat?” he questioned. “Who the
devil is that?” a voice answered. He had returned unwittingly to his own
platoon. The platoon commander, hearing the voices, came up.
“Is that Hicks?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, where have you been? I told you to come back if the Frogs weren’t
near here. They probably haven’t arrived yet.”
Hicks sought out Pugh and lay down beside him underneath his blanket.
Their heads covered, they talked in whispers.
“Gimme a cigarette,” Hicks commanded.
The cigarette, badly crumpled, was produced from one of Pugh’s pockets.
“Now give me a match.”
After waiting a while Pugh produced a box of matches. Then with a sigh:
“Ah doan mind givin’ you cigarettes, Hicksy, but I hate like hell to
carry ’em around for you.”
Silence.
“Where ya been?”
“Oh, out tryin’ to find some damned Frogs.”
“When do we go over again?”
“In the morning, I guess.”
Hicks, having been in touch with the commanding officer to the extent of
carrying out an order of the lieutenant’s, was expected to know these
things.
* * * * *
The obverse bank of the large ridge was barren of foliage. No trees
reared their protecting heads, shielding the men who slipped quietly down
the side. Nor did there seem to be any need of shelter. In the half light
of the gray dawn men moved without the usual accompaniment of firing from
the enemy. To the silently advancing men it seemed as if there were no
enemy in front of them, nothing to hinder their progress into the town
that rested in delicate contours on the near bank of the hill ahead.
Warily they proceeded nearer to the lines of jagged barbed wire that ran
like a gantlet, one near the low point of the ridge, the other several
hundreds of yards away, where the hill rose to the town. The ground, with
the deep green of long, untrampled grass, was springy under the feet of
the men. Their mouths tasted as if they had eaten mud. Breathless, the
blunt air lay against them. From the sombre purple trees on the hill, the
unnatural stillness of the village, there was a portent of evil.
Carefully, as if they were dressed for inspection, the men avoided the
barbs of the wire that reached out to grasp and tear their clothing.
There was no hurry. Every movement was made calmly and a trifle
ponderously. Under the silence the platoon had acquired a fictitious
dignity.
The last man through the tangled wire, the platoon formed in line again,
moving forward. And then, in the dim light, the trees shot sparks of
fire. Bullets sizzled hotly into the pen. They struck with an ugly
hiss. In consternation the platoon stood for a moment, then fell to the
ground. Their hearts flopped—and stood still. Inside their heads wings
of mammoth windmills were revolving. Bullets spattered on, demanding,
screeching for, death. The whole sound was reminiscent of ivory dice
being frantically shaken in a metal box.
Hicks, by sheer straining, tried to force his body into the ground. He
felt that his helmet was a magnet for the flying pieces of steel. His
shoulders felt bare, the flesh undulating over his body. A bullet struck
at the right of him, throwing up a puff of dust in his face. Cautiously,
counting every move, he unfastened his respirator from his neck and
wriggled it in front of him. He dropped his chin, letting his helmet
fall from his head upon the respirator box. A group of bullets struck
near his elbow. It hastened his piling his bandoliers of ammunition in
front of him. Then he regretted his action. Supposing a bullet should
strike the bandoliers and set off the cartridges! How many? Two hundred
and twenty. And what would be left of him? He threw the bandoliers to the
side. The bullets hailed, beating fiercely like an early spring storm.
He crossed his arms in front of him, hiding his head and shutting his
eyes. But the desire to see, to witness, was strongest, and he guardedly
twisted his neck.
Around him men were whining for stretcher bearers. Plaintive and
despondent, their cries reached his ears. He did not care. A dead man
was a dead man. He grew sulky, restive, at their repeated cries for
assistance.
“Why can’t they let a fellow alone?” he thought. The enemy continued with
their torrent of fire.
God, this was ticklish business, lying here like a bump on a log! Could
nothing be done about it?
He crooked his neck, looking to the right, where the platoon commander
lay. The platoon commander was so still that for a moment Hicks thought
he was dead. Then something in his tense position informed him that he
was alive.
“Why doesn’t he do something? What the devil is he good for?” Hicks
wondered.
Pugh was lying in a spot thoroughly without shelter. Around him the
bullets spat viciously, covering him with fine dirt. Ahead of him a
small hump of ground enticed him. It was small, not much bigger than the
crown of a hat, but to Pugh it looked mountainous. He had watched it
now seemingly for hours, afraid to move, believing that if he lay quite
still the enemy would think he was dead and not fire at him. But ever the
bullets came closer. He wriggled a few inches on his belly, and stopped.
He tried it again. If only the machine-guns would let up for a moment he
was sure that he could make it. He twisted a few more inches, working his
body snakelike. Now he could almost touch the mound of dirt. He reached
out his hand and grasped at the hump. The fingers of his hand had been
stretched out. Now they slowly crumpled, making a weak, ineffectual fist.
His arm remained outstretched. His head flattened against the earth, his
body relaxing. From the left side of his head blood dripped, forming
a little pool that was quickly absorbed by the dirt. Slowly his body
stiffened out.
Hicks had watched him, fascinated, wanting to cry out warning, yet
fearing that his effort to help would be a hindrance. He felt himself,
with Pugh, striving to attain shelter behind the absurd little mound. It
was his hand that reached out to touch it!
“Pugh!” he called. “Oh, Pugh!” He was excited. “Can’t you make it, Pugh?”
In his consciousness the thought pounded that Pugh was dead, but he
combated it. “Why, Jack can’t be dead,” he argued with himself. “Why, he
just gave me a cigarette last night!” There was total unbelief of the
possibility of connecting death with Pugh in his tone. “Jack Pugh dead?
Damn foolishness.” But he was dead, and Hicks knew it. It made him sick
to think of it. “That’s right. It’s something you can’t fool yourself
about.”
He rose straight as any of the posts from which was strung the fatal
barbed wire. He stooped over and picked up his bandolier of ammunition.
He looked around at the men lying there on the ground and a sneer came
over his face. Methodically, as if he were walking home, he started,
toward the end of the barbed-wire pen. A bullet neatly severed the
fastening of his puttee. He was unmindful of the fact that it unrolled
the folds of the cloth falling about his feet.
Now, along the line, other men had got to their feet. They were all in a
daze, not knowing what was happening. They sensed an enemy in front of
them, but they were not fully aware of his presence.
Whizzing past, the machine-gun bullets were annoying little insects.
Hicks struck at his face, trying to shoo the bothering little creatures
away. How damned persistent they were! He reached the strands of barbed
wire which lay between him and the enemy and calmly picked out a place
where the wire had been broken, and walked through. Now he had entered
the fringe of the forest. Dimly he recognized a face before him to
be that of a German. There was the oddly shaped helmet covering the
head, the utilitarian gray of the German uniform. The face did not at
all appear barbaric. It was quite youthful, the chin covered with a
white down. He veered the muzzle of his rifle toward the face, and,
without raising his rifle to his shoulder, pulled the trigger. The face
disappeared.
Gray uniforms, with helmets like distorted flower-pots, fled through
the woods, in front of the mass of men that now surged forward. Hicks
followed after them, not particularly desirous of stopping them, but
wanting to overtake them before they reached the crest of the hill.
Men poured into the woods, making a firm wall studded with bristling
bayonets. On their faces was a crystallized emotion, presumably hate.
Lying out on the ground but a short time ago they had been frozen with
fear. They were hounds on a leash being tortured. The leash had snapped
and the fear was vanishing in the emotion of a greater fear—the maddened
fight for self-preservation. And so they scoured the woods, charging the
Germans with a white fury, recklessly throwing hand-grenades in front of
them.
Their cowardice made them brave men, heroes. Pushing on, they swung to
the right toward the town. Through the open field they ran in little
spurts, falling on their faces, rising and rushing on. From the windows
of the houses and beside the walls bullets zinged past, stopping men and
sending them headlong upon the ground. A small number of them rushed into
the town.
Bullets flew in every direction. Men toppled down from the windows of
houses. Others raced up the steps of the dwellings. Men ran through the
streets, wild and tumultuous. They returned to the pavement, guarding
their captives. Men poured the hate of their beings upon the town. They
wept and cursed like lost souls in limbo. All of their fear, all of their
anxiety, all of the restraint which had been forced on them during the
morning when they lay like animals in a slaughter-house and their brains
numbed with apprehension, came out in an ugly fury.
Once the Germans found that the town was invaded, that the men had
broken through the woods and barbed wire, they offered a weak and empty
resistance. They would readily have given themselves up to be marched in
an orderly procession back to a prison camp. There was only a section
holding the town. But the men did not know this. All of the stories of
German frightfulness, of German courage, of the ruthlessness of the
German foot troops, made them battle on in fear.
At last two squads of worn, frightened Germans were assembled in the town
square and, threats following after them, were marched back to the rear.
It was pitiful to see the Germans reaching in their breast pockets and
bringing forth cigars which they cherished, and offering them to their
captors as an act of amelioration. Some had bars of chocolate which they
readily gave and which the men readily accepted. Some of the Germans
tried even to smile, their efforts proving pathetic because of their fear.
The afternoon sun threw wan rays on the distorted bodies which fear and
surprise had drawn out of shape. As had been the case with life, death
had not fashioned their features identically. Some wore expressions of
peace, as if they were about to enjoy a long and much-needed rest; others
sprawled with sagging chins, from which a stream of saliva had flown;
one face grinned like an idiot’s. The shadows lengthened, blanketing the
unresisting bodies. The men marched out of the town, leaving it to the
dead and the night.
The ground over which they were advancing looked stunted, blighted by
the incessant bursting of shells, the yellow layers of gas that, now and
again, had covered it. The grass was short and wiry, with bare spots of
earth showing. A desultory firing was being kept up by the artillery;
every now and then machine-guns would cut loose, spattering their lead
through the air. But the front was comparatively quiet. In an hour at
most the advancing line would have to halt. The sun already had made
its retiring bow in a final burst of glory, and now dusk curtained the
movements of the men.
Orderlies hurried wearily through the rough field, carrying messages
which would affect the activities of the troops in the morning.
Officers, indistinguishable from enlisted men, moved along, their air
of command forgotten in the effort to keep spirit and flesh together.
Their lineaments expressed a dumb horror, through which appeared an
appreciation of the grim, comic imbecility of the whole affair. When
spoken to, the men grinned awkwardly, trying to mask the horror of war
with a joke.
Some of the more energetic among them attacked the hard ground with their
shovels; the older and wiser men sought out shell holes large enough to
protect their bodies in case of a counter-attack.
The front was still, save for a nervous tremor running through the
opposing line and manifesting itself in the jerky firing of flare pistols.
Through the dull purple dusk three airplanes circled overhead, snowy
angry geese. From their present altitude it was not discernible which
were engaged in the assault, which the attacked. The motors, which
distinguished to the experienced ear whether the airplane was German
or Allied, were not to be heard. Red streaks traced a brilliant course
through the sky, forming a network of crimson between the fluttering
planes. The airplanes drew near each other, then darted away. They
revolved in circles, each trying to rise higher, directly over the other,
and pour from that point of vantage volleys of lead.
Detached, the men lying on the ground watched the spectacle, enjoying it
as they would have enjoyed a Fourth of July celebration.
Without warning, the airplane that circled beneath the other two rose
straight in the air. Above, it volleyed streams of bullets into the backs
of the others. The pilot of one of the planes beneath seemed to lose
control. Wing over wing, it fell like a piece of paper in a tempered
wind. The two remaining planes raced each other out of sight.