We laugh and laugh; we applaud, crying like fools:
“There are our two sections. Bravo!”
But behind the files that fall are others in greater numbers which advance in close ranks, one after another.
Our fire is slower. Our munitions are exhausted—the gun crew is firing all the cartridges of their carbines.
The assailants realize this. Some of the groups have already reached our emplacements. An incredibly tall and strong officer hurls himself on a gun. It is Marseille’s gun. It has been silent just a moment, but it hasn’t finished its task for all that.
Marseille tears the barrel from the tripod, and using it as a gigantic mace beats the officer to death.
A terrible hand to hand fight follows. The lieutenant, wounded, dripping with blood, on his knees on the parapet, stops the demoralized enemy with shots from his revolver.
But this heroic defense of the breach can’t last long. Most of our men have fallen and most of the rest are wounded. The enemy is still advancing, in close ranks now. He is going to get by....
Then, from the support trench, which the ... first Territorials hold, a company dashes out like a whirlwind, with an irresistible dash. It throws the mass of the enemy into disorder, and it is soon just a mob, which turns its back and flees frantically, as fast as it can go, falling under our rifle fire, and strewing the ground with corpses and innumerable wounded who drag themselves along on the ground begging for mercy.