A gray, evil earth; a gray, evil sky, with bomb-dropping aeroplanes overhead like vultures waiting to swoop down upon their carrion prey. Upon that scene night fell.
On that small section of the trenches not less than 50,000 projectiles had fallen that evening. The shrill whistling of bullets, the baby's wail of falling torpedoes, the spattering "whit" "whit" of ricochetting fuses, the six-fold squall of the 77's, the whine of the small howitzers, and the roar of large shell formed a shrieking arch in the tortured and glutted air.
Nor was the French artillery silent. The batteries of "Soixante-Quinze" replied incessantly. From time to time the bellow as of a prehistoric bull told that the 8.2-inch gun was bodily tearing holes and men in the enemy's trenches. The long thin Rimailho sent its 5.9-inch shell with the swift flight of a vengeful meteor and the new great 10-inch howitzer looped its 240-pound shell upon the dug-outs where the men were sheltering. There is neither shelter nor men after that shell has fallen.
The guards in the advance trenches were redoubled. Extra supplies of bombs and hand-grenades were served out.
Under arms, silent, expectant, grim, stood the Moroccan brigade. Their turn was coming, soon.
The night dragged on. No one went to sleep, for sleep was impossible under the fury of noise.
The Germans, systematic in everything, over-systematic in everything, never commence an assault before midnight. At half-past eleven o'clock, Horace plugged in for the order to be given for the barrage fire to begin.
The whirlwind of vertically-falling flame shut off the German lines in a tawny curtain of annihilation.
Now and then rockets shot up, red, green and white, writing artillery messages on the sky.