With a sharp whirr, or a long drone, the bullets fly overhead. A swish and a crackle. Ah! that was lower, and has hit the palisade. Thud! Thud! they come into our good wall. A corporal blows out the light; wise man! A crack and a jingle of broken crockery—the tiles of our pagoda are getting it now. Flop! a leaden messenger has come through a window, and flattened itself against the opposite wall.
In our room all is silent. Each man stands with his finger on the trigger; a corporal is behind each squad; we are waiting for orders. In the trenches on the crest of the slope behind us, and in the brick buildings scattered over our position, our comrades, like us, are expectant, ready and confident. The enemy's fire increases, and we hear it break out on the left. The flashes from their rifles come closer and closer; some of them are now not more than 100 yards away.
A good many bullets are finding their way into our building. A tin pannikin, with a hole drilled through it, falls with a clatter from the shelf, and an earthenware jar which contained cold tea is smashed. We can hear the soft trickle of the liquid over the tiled floor.
We take all the cover we can as we peep out into the darkness. No one has been hurt, but it begins to be trying to the nerves.
A ball flicks the window-ledge, and fills our eyes and nostrils with brick-dust. "Schweine!" exclaims my neighbour, rubbing his eyes. "Silence!" says the corporal who stands just behind.
I have a growing desire to say something to somebody, and feel terribly lonely. Next I swear mentally that after counting ten I will open fire and stand all chances. I count ten; then—do nothing, and keep on waiting—it seems for hours. The whole thing lasts about thirty minutes.
At last! We hear footsteps coming down the hill, and Lieutenant Meyer appears walking at a quick pace, a bugler behind him. He comes into our quarters, and looks around in the obscurity to see that all are present. Just then some more of our tiles go to glory with a smash. He laughs lightly, and says:
"Ça chauffe, mes enfants," and a titter runs through the room. Then, turning to a "non-com": "Schmidt! go over to the guard-house" (a few paces away to our left), "and tell the corporal that when the bugle sounds, he will open a fire of six cartridges from the loopholes. You can remain there and join in." Then to us: "Attention! for independent firing! at one hundred metres——"
Every man present braces himself and jubilates. The bugler, at a sign from our officer, steps forward to the doorway and sounds the "Open fire."