In a few bounds we were away from that dangerous spot. The third shell burst, in effect, exactly on the place we had just left——
We are at this instant at the point where the road from Béthincourt starts to the top of Dead Man's Hill. A little wagon is turned upside-down, with the stiffened remains of the horse and its swollen belly still in the shafts.
We just had time to crawl into a shell-hole behind the carcass which hid us from the enemy and served as a shield. Our protector gave off nauseating puffs of a very rich scent:
"It is drôle," observed Guéneau, "that Dead Man is nothing but a rotting horse!"
CARNAVAL! DEAD MAN'S HILL.
March 7, 1916.
The cannonade was elaborate to-day—What desolation! This moonlighted scenery would sadden you profoundly—enough that man be that heartless he can utterly destroy and ruin nature beautiful, even to the very roots. The machine-guns sputter intermittently. Someone shouts:
"Ah! Wonderful! How strange it is!"
"What is the matter with you?"
"Lieutenant, to-day is Mardi Gras!"