Crossing the field they saw the ravages of artillery projectiles—deep, conical holes, five or six feet in diameter. Here, too, they found shrapnel cases, splinters of shells, skeletons of horses, fragments of bloodstained clothing and cartridge pouches. The moonlight made the path as open as day, and each object reminding of terrible conflict was apparently magnified by the white shine of the moon. The boys walked as in a dream, and were first awakened by the flapping wings of a huge bird, frightened by their approach from its perch on a broken gun-carriage.
“Let’s get out of this,” mumbled Henri; “it gives me shivery shakes; it’s a graveyard, and it seems like ghosts of dead soldiers are tracking us.”
Billy was short on nerves, but if he had been called on for a confession just then he might have pleaded guilty to a tremble or two.
He managed to put on a bold front, however, and was about to give Henri a brace by telling him they would have to get used to the ways of war, when there was a sound like the roll of distant thunder far to the south.
“What’s that?”
Billy’s sudden question drove the ghosts away from Henri’s mind, and both boys ran like deer up the hill to the line of trees.
“There’s no storm over there,” panted Henri. “You can’t see a cloud as big as a man’s hand.”
“That isn’t thunder!” exclaimed Billy. “That’s cannon! They’re shooting at something!”
“There,” cried Henri, “that sounds like fire-crackers now.”
“Rifles,” observed Billy.