John was lying in the snow near Bougainville, with the shells from both
sides hissing and shrieking in a storm over their heads. He was used to
being under fire and he knew that none of these missiles was intended
for them, but he could not restrain a quiver of apprehension now and
then, lest some piece of shrapnel, falling short, should find him. It
was always the shrapnel with the hideous whine and shriek and its
tearing wound that they dreaded most. The clean little rifle bullet,
which if it did not kill did not hurt much, was infinitely more welcome.

"How long will this go on?" John asked of Bougainville; his voice could
be heard as an undertone in the roar of the battle.

"Not long, because at present we have the advantage. The Germans know
that they're worse off in the town than they would be outside. Our guns
are bringing tons and tons of brick and stone about their ears. Hark to
our splendid artillery, Mr. Scott! See how it sweeps Chastel!"

The French fire always increasing in volume was most accurate and
deadly. The famous seventy-five-millimeter gun was again proving itself
the most terrible of mobile field weapons. As walls fell, pyramids of
fire shot up in many places, casting a sinister glow over the snowy
earth. But above everything rose the lofty and beautiful spire of the
Gothic cathedral, still untouched.

All the time the moonlight had been steadily growing more brilliant.
Save where the burning houses and the flashing of the cannon cast a red
glow a veil of silver mist, which brightened rather than obscured, hung
over the snow. John distinctly saw Germans in the town and often, too,
he saw them fall.