The calcium whiteness of star shells illuminated the gruesome zone of No Man's Land, void, deserted and desolate.
On its horrid bleakness, nothing moved. Its pallid stillness intensified the menace.
Officers and men glanced anxiously at the watches fastened on their wrists.
Behind, the Moroccan brigade stood motionless. They even laughed in eagerness. It was a jangling laugh. White men who heard it, shivered.
It was not yet midnight, but, suddenly, a vicious crackle of rifles far to the left suggested that there, the moment was at hand.
Not yet the attack, it was a patrol of German wire-cutters, trying to sneak up under cover to make an opening.
"Cr-a-a-a-a-ck!"
A machine-gun spoke. The wire-cutters pitched headlong. The young officer, wounded, tried to crawl back to the lines.
"Crack!"
One rifle spoke. Even at night a sharpshooter does not miss. The figure of the German officer moved no more.