Men in the front wave were going down like tenpins. Off there
diagonally to the right and forward I glimpsed a blinding burst,
and as much as a whole platoon went down.

Around me men were dropping all the time--men I knew. I saw Dolbsie
clawing at his throat as he reeled forward, falling. I saw Vickers
double up, drop his rifle, and somersault, hanging on to his
abdomen.

A hundred yards away, to the right, an officer walked backwards
with an automatic pistol balanced on his finger, smiling, pulling
his men along like a drum major. A shell or something hit him. He
disappeared in a welter of blood and half a dozen of the front file
fell with him.

I thought we must be nearly there and sneaked a look around the
edge of the tank. A traversing machine gun raked the mud, throwing
up handfuls, and I heard the gruff "row, row" of flattened bullets
as they ricocheted off the steel armor. I ducked back, and on we
went.

Slow! Slow! I found myself planning what I would do when I got to
the front trenches--if we ever did. There would be a grand rumpus,
and I would click a dozen or more.

And then we arrived.

I don't suppose that trip across No Man's Land behind the tanks
took over five minutes, but it seemed like an hour.