We have to get out of the way to let convoys past which are going in the opposite direction. They are ammunition trucks which make a noise like thunder.
Just then, some artillerymen, who do not want to wait and who glory in the not altogether fortunate reputation of always getting by, no matter what’s in the way, dash on to the bridge at a gallop.
“That’s it. Now we’re in a pickle, a mess ... that’s the....”
The poles run into the carburetors, the horses rear and kick against the hoods with their maddened hoofs; the motors continue to run, raging at their impotence.
Nevertheless a way must be cleared through the bridge. And in the pitch dark night that’s not easy.
A chauffeur has the ingenious idea of lighting a headlight.
Immediately, evidently judging that this light is without a doubt insufficient and its aid is indispensable for us, the German artillery sends us all the material necessary for clearing the bridge.
It sends us shells and with absolutely no care at all.
To the right, to the left, in front, and behind, the shots fall like a hailstorm.