The 150 timed-shell from time to time rent the air with their furious screams like those of a cat when you step on its tail——
During my whole campaign never have I seen an equal density of fire.
Torn bodies of skirmishers were scattered here and there in this zone of almost certain death. Continuing our way we had escaped death more than once in this violent fire. We were covered with spurts of earth from bursting projectiles which fell close to us and those that fell around struck us with ricochetting fragments of steel.
As there was not urgent need of reaching Ornes, we resolved to tarry a few instants in one of the shelters on the farm. We had 175 yards to go in a rain of steel and well-directed fire, or as dizzy a route as the ascension of Mount Cervin, for example.
We entered the telephone post at the precise moment the poilus ascertained all underground lines had been cut——
The shells continued to fall so fast around us that we had the impression of being on the inside of a hermetically sealed autobus rumbling with great speed over a rough pavement.
A projectile burst at one corner of the shelter which crumbled from the force of the explosion and threw us all together in a heap—No panic!
I sensed the feeling that our last hour had come and the men, picking themselves up in silence, crowded into the corners save one who cried, gesticulating with his arms:
"Is—is that what you call a demolishing fire?"