Once more I repeat:
"Fire! Fire! Let them have it! Put it into them! Fire!"
* * * * *
"Hurrah! Vorwärts!"
I am surrounded by Boches; it seems impossible that I can escape,
separated as I am from all my men. Nevertheless I grasp my revolver
in my hand and pray only I may be permitted to give a good account of
myself.
Suddenly I am sprawling face downwards, nose to the earth, having
stumbled over something hard and metallic. Lying in the mud is the
body of a dead German whose helmet has rolled a little away from him.
Instantly an idea seizes me. I pick up the helmet and place it on my
own head, passing the strap beneath my chin to secure it.
There follows a mad flight for the safety the chasseurs will afford.
Without hesitating a second, I rush by groups of Boches who are
wandering about doubtfully, their original plans having been rather
upset by our fusillade. As I pass them I cry:
"Hurrah! Vorwärts!"
Like them, too, I keep repeating the word to which they seem to attach
great importance, which is:
"Heiligtum!"
The rain stings my face: the mud adheres to my soles until only with
difficulty can I raise boots which have become enormously big and
heavy. Twice I fall on my hands and knees, only to rise again and
instantly resume my flight, notwithstanding my aching legs. Singing and
whistling bullets pass over me into the darkness beyond.
Out of the blackness at my feet a man rises and the words on his lips
are French.
"Is it you, Letty?"
"Yes, Lieutenant; I've got one in the thigh."
"That's all right, old man; we'll get there yet!"
Already there are no more harsh-voiced brawlers around us. Manifestly
they must reform before continuing the assault. So I throw away the
helmet and replace my cap of which I have taken good care.
Before reaching the chasseurs I overtake four Boches, in each of whom,
either in the back or in the head, I put a revolver bullet. Each one
drops in his tracks with a long, strangled cry.
(Censored.)
* * * * *
Skirting the base of a steep slope, I pass through a fire zone where
the bullets in hundreds, whining and shrilling, tear up the soil all
about me. Then I encounter a group of men, standing at the foot of a
tree. There is a dying officer in the center, supported against the
tree-hole. A glimpse I have of a dark blue tunic wide opened, of a
shirt stained with bright blood. The wounded man's head sags heavily
down to his shoulder, and in the whitened, tortured face, moist from
fearful agony, I recognize my own major.
But I must not stay!
* * * * *
I question a lieutenant who is marking the fall of the shells through
his glasses, shaking from head to foot the while from excitement.
"Things going well? Eh?"
He turns towards me. The joy which fills him is plainly legible in his
face. He laughs exuberantly:
"I should say they are going well. The Germans are giving
way--deserting their positions like rats a sinking ship."
He laughs once more. "Listen to our 75's! They are making them dance
like madmen! That is the way to carry on, what? They are being kicked
in the sterns now, the swine!"
A staff captain on foot is watching the delighted gunnners. He laughs
also and repeats several times in a loud voice: "Good! Very good!"