bullets must have passed high over our heads, and we should have heard
only the characteristic whistle of shots fired at long range.

For a moment, only a moment, we were full of dread. What had happened?
What had become of the comrades who were in the firing-line? Grouped
together in the little enclosure bordered with quick-set hedges where
there were still traces of what had been the kitchen-garden of our
farm, we strained our eyes to see without uttering a word. In front of
us was the dark line of the wood. We scrutinised it sharply, this
silent mass of trees and bushes on which autumn had already laid the
most splendid colours of its palette. In spite of the dull light, what
an admirable background it made to the melancholy picture of the
devastated landscape! First, quite close to the ground, was a tangle
of bushes and brambles, its russet foliage forming a kind of
impenetrable screen, which, in bright sunshine, would have been a
curtain of purple and gold. Then, pointing up into the misty sky, came
the denuded trunks of the trees, surrounded by a maze of myriads of
delicate branches, their ramifications stretching a violet-tinted veil
across the sky. In spite of the tragic present I could not but admire
the marvellous setting Nature offered for the drama in which we were
destined to be the actors.

The bullets continued their infernal music, whistling in thousands
over our heads. At the same time the fire of the German mortars
redoubled in intensity, and their great "coal-boxes" (big shells)
burst with a deafening din a few hundred yards behind us, seeking to
silence our guns. These, concealed in a hollow, answered vigorously.

But what did it all mean? What was happening? We longed to shout, to
call, to implore some one to answer us, to tell us what had been