"You took a-plenty back there. You've raised your average awful high. I'll say it!"
"I hardly knew what I was doing."
"Didn't you? We did!"
"Since then sometimes I forget what we're here for."
"Don't worry, kid! You'll be told."
"It's funny how things happen that you never expected, but afterward you see it was natural as anything."
At midnight the quiet sky split redly asunder. German guns began to feel a way to Paris. The earth rocked in a gentle rhythm under a rain of shells. Shrapnel and gas lent vivacity to the assault. Guns to their utmost reach swept the little valley like a Titan's sickle. Private Cowan nestled his cheek against the earthen side of his little slit trench and tried to remember what she had worn that last night in Newbern. Something glistening, warm in colour, like ripe fruit; and a rusty braid bound her head. She had watched, doubtfully, to see if people were not impatient at her talk. A rattlepate, old Sharon called her. She was something else now; some curious sort of woman, older, not afraid. She wouldn't care any more if people were impatient.
At four o'clock of that morning the bombardment of the front line gave way to a rolling barrage. Close behind this, hugging it, as the men said, came gray waves of the enemy. It was quieter after the barrage had passed: only the tack-tack of machine guns and the clash of meeting bayonets.
"Going to have some rough stuff," said Private Brennon.