"To your guns!"
Something dark, artillery possibly, was moving yonder at the foot of
some wooded hills more than five thousand yards off. We opened fire. On
the right, on the left, and even in front of us ·75 batteries came into
action one by one. When our own guns were silent for a few seconds we
heard their volleys echoing in fours.
In the distance in front of us all had become still. The Captain
gave the word to cease fire. But the smoke from the powder and the
dust raised from the parched field by the concussion of the rounds
had hardly cleared away when some heavy shells hurtled through the
hedge masking us, leaving three gaping breaches in their wake and
obliterating with their smoke the whole of the eastern horizon.
"They must have seen the fire of our guns," said Bréjard.
"And they've got theirs trained to a T," added Hutin. "Six-inchers,
too!"
As ill-luck would have it, just at that moment a refilling wagon from
the first line, conducted by a corporal riding a big white mare, came
up at a trot.
While they were still some way off we shouted:
"Dismount!"
"Dismount! You'll get us killed!"
The drivers seemed not to hear.
"Dismount, you--! Walk!... Walk!..."
They had already unhooked the full ammunition-wagon, hooked the empty
one to the limber, and were off at a gallop in spite of our cries.
Shells were not long in arriving, their whistling modulated by the
wind. One second passed ... two ... three....
This fear of death--the death which falls slowly from the sky--was an
interminable torture. Everything trembled. The shells burst, and the
wind blew their smoke down upon us.