How long this phase lasted the subaltern never knew. Ordinary standards of time could not measure that nightmare where he constantly shortened the range, hurled unavailing thunders at an inexorably advancing flood. He remembered the moment of agony when he saw that they were running out of ammunition, the joyous relief when the first-line ammunition-wagons raced up and stopped at the right hand of the guns. Under a pall of smoke from the bursting shells he saw his gun-crews dwindling, each man doing the work of two, of three. Once a heavy explosion on the ground attracted his attention. It was the commencement of a series. Choking fumes, now black, now yellowish, drifted over him. A howitzer battery had joined their assailants, was firing high explosive. Exasperated, he searched the distances for a glimpse of the hostile guns. He saw no sign of them. They were being overwhelmed, as they themselves had overwhelmed the battery he had not seen, by foes whose concealment he could not even guess at.
Suddenly—how, he knew not—the word was passed to him: "In command." He ran to the end of the line, found the sergeant-major crouching behind the wagon-limber. Blood was running from a diagonal bullet-score across his face. Close by were the bodies of his predecessors in command.
"Four guns in action, sir," said the sergeant-major. "Brigade commander's orders: 'Hold our ground.'"
"How long ago?" queried the subaltern.
"Some time," was the reply. "Not sure—but think the colonel and staff are killed, sir."
The subaltern looked along the line of guns, frowned at the tiny groups of gunners.
"Where's the observing party?"
"At the guns, sir."
"Rangetakers? Horseholders?" He had to shout to be heard in the continuous crashing of the shells.