The high-explosive charges tore and shattered the armor-steel and masonry as though they had been cardboard, and shortly before dawn, wide breaches in the walls showed the peaceful starlight shining through. Though the fort was a wreck, three guns were working still.
A fragment of shell struck the master. He fell.
His comrade, dropping to one knee beside him, heard the dying man whisper,
"Take this to my wife!"
The comrade reached his hand to the designated pocket, took out the little packet, put it inside his tunic and returned to his gun.
An hour after sunrise a shell tore through the rear cupola of Boncelles and plucked it up as a weed is torn up by its roots. The German officer who was directing the attack offered to accept a surrender.
The Belgian commandant answered,
"We have still two guns to fight with!"
Only one shell more fell on Fort Boncelles, but it landed full in the middle of the ruined structure, and was one of the shells from the 11-inch howitzers. The inner concrete walls fell to dust, pieces of armor-steel and gun shelters were hurled a quarter of a mile away and both the remaining guns were silenced.