Overhead the fog was tinged with a rosy hue, but round about the men all was grey, and one could see very little farther than the spectral tree-trunks in one's immediate vicinity.
The foxy-faced captain with the gold-rimmed glasses marched behind his company, and in his hand he carried a brutal whip, a veritable cat-o'-nine-tails. When a man stumbled over some hidden tree root he would hiss out "Pig!" or "Clumsy hound!" And Dennis felt his heart leap as he heard himself addressed.
"You with the bombs there—what are you doing with those brown boots?" said the captain.
"They belong to an English prisoner," said Dennis, with perfect truth.
"That is no excuse," said the officer sternly. "You will report yourself after this affair is over for daring to go into action improperly dressed. What is your name?"
"Carl Heft, Herr Captain," said Dennis, over his shoulder.
"Very well, I shall remember it," snarled the bully. And, changing his tone, he shouted "Vorwärts!" as a shot rang out ahead of them, and they heard the French sentries give the alarm.
Instantly the hoarse roll of drums rose from the advancing battalions, and everyone quickened his pace. The wood thinned out, and, bursting from the trees, the 307th Reserve Battalion flung themselves with the bayonet upon the ruined village of Biaches.
There was a belfry tower still standing, and the chimney of a factory—all the rest was a heap of shattered dwelling's round which the greeny-grey wave surged with a roar.
In front of them figures in blue-grey ran scurrying, and were joined by others, and the rifles began to speak.