Compared with this tremendous fight, our encounters with Schlick in the mountains were little more than playing at war.
In the centre, forty great guns on either side, served by skilful gunners, thundered away at each other. Farther along, the Austrian leader hurled battalion after battalion against our right wing.
By means of a field-glass I saw what happened to the first, and the fate of several others was like it.
A great, white-coated mass, looking grey, however, in the early morning, went forward slowly, it appeared to me, yet firmly. A few figures in the front formed a sort of spear-head, which should help the mass to pierce a way.
These greyish-white dots were officers. One carried what might have been a handkerchief; really it was the famous black and yellow colours.
The mass moved on slowly, steadily, firmly. On the right of it shot and shell flew screaming and hissing; flashes of fire burst from the guns; the earth shook with the discharges; a curtain of smoke shut out my view.
When it lifted I looked for the battalion. Yes, there it was, compact as ever, undisturbed by the terrible fight going on elsewhere, and marching steadily towards its destination.
Suddenly some tiny curls of whitish smoke were wafted from the heights. The battalion halted. There was a movement in the ranks--I could not tell what; then the mass advanced again. But as it moved away, I noticed that some parts of it had, so to speak, dropped off; and from this point there began a confused line of dots, thin in some places, thicker in others.
The column had become smaller, and each time the little puffs of curly smoke appeared, it seemed to quiver, as if with cold, and the line of dots was made longer.
The spear-head had done its share towards forming the track. The sides and base of it had vanished, but the apex remained. It was the man with the handkerchief, which he continued to wave without once looking back.