Cries, groans, oaths, and commands impossible to execute! It is Hell.
In an excess of generosity, doubtless to aid us in getting out of our difficulty, a well-aimed shell falls on a truck, sets fire to the gasoline tank, and the whole thing saturated with paint and covered with impervious canvas bursts into flames.
We can see. We can see only too well now, and the Boches too.
Through their glasses they can easily estimate what their objective is worth and see what a large crowd is crowding around the spectacle. And their bombardment doubles in intensity.
“This is no time to stay here.”
On the trot we gain the fields and follow the bank lined by poplars.
We reach the limit of the zone of fire in about three hundred yards. We crowd behind the trees and hedges to avoid the splinters which can still reach us.
Suddenly, there is a terrible cry, a noise of something falling. The bridge has fallen down.
That is fatal.