incessant wrestling of the two armies that the regiment almost seemed a
part of the clay bank which shielded them from the shells. On the top of
the hill a battery was arguing in tremendous roars with some other guns,
and to the eye of the infantry, the artillerymen, the guns, the
caissons, the horses, were distinctly outlined upon the blue sky. When a
piece was fired, a red streak as round as a log flashed low in the
heavens, like a monstrous bolt of lightning. The men of the battery wore
white duck trousers, which somehow emphasised their legs: and when they
ran and crowded in little groups at the bidding of the shouting
officers, it was more impressive than usual to the infantry.

Fred Collins, of A Company, was saying: "Thunder, I wisht I had a
drink. Ain't there any water round here?" Then, somebody yelled: "There
goes th' bugler!"

As the eyes of half the regiment swept in one machine-like movement,
there was an instant's picture of a horse in a great convulsive leap of
a death-wound and a rider leaning back with a crooked arm and spread
fingers before his face. On the ground was the crimson terror of an
exploding shell, with fibres of flame that seemed like lances. A
glittering bugle swung clear of the rider's back as fell headlong the
horse and the man. In the air was an odour as from a conflagration.

Sometimes they of the infantry looked down at a fair little meadow
which spread at their feet. Its long, green grass was rippling gently in
a breeze. Beyond it was the grey form of a house half torn to pieces by
shells and by the busy axes of soldiers who had pursued firewood. The
line of an old fence was now dimly marked by long weeds and by an
occasional post. A shell had blown the well-house to fragments. Little
lines of grey smoke ribboning upward from some embers indicated the