No one knows how many bodies are burned to cinders there. A frightful odor assails our nostrils in the smoke which encircles us.
A heavy rolling roar, boring through the night like the noise of an express train coming out of a tunnel at high speed, comes from over there, from the black hole where the enemy is.
“That’s a terrific fire!”
“Look out.”
A violent puff, like a heavy blow, knocks us down.
The mules rear and draw back. A wagon slides down the bank and falls into the water, taking its animal and driver with it.
A shell has burst on the bank opposite and it has torn up by the roots a large poplar which falls across the canal. It is a miracle that it didn’t crush a dozen of us. We run to help the driver. The water is shallow. He holds himself up by the weeds. We pull him out with the aid of several lengths of whip lash, but the mule and the wagon have rolled into the middle of the canal and are lost.
The bombardment continues until dawn, but less violently.
A few shots, the longest, come near us. The pounding continues on the site of the bridge, obstinately and stubbornly.