The advancing German army was a semicircle of fire. From every point the field batteries opened, making a steady crash so frightful and violent that it seemed to rend the earth. But above their roar the eruption of the colossal cannon in the rear could be heard now, and shells of immense weight struck and burst in the English lines. Along the whole British front the cannon were replying, and the roar reached incredible proportions. Noxious fumes too filled the air. Gases seemed to be released and the air was heavy and poisonous in the lungs. War had taken on a new aspect, one more sinister and menacing than the old.
The shock from the great guns became so terrific that John tore little pieces from the lining of his coat and stuffed them in his ears, in fear lest he should be made deaf forever. He did it surreptitiously, until he saw others doing the same, and then he put in more. Many of the troops were lying down now. Others were kneeling, but everywhere the officers stood up or sat their horses, reckless of death. The rifle firing had ceased, because the pickets and skirmishers of both were driven in, and the masses on the two sides were not yet near enough to each other for that weapon.
But the cannon, hundreds and hundreds of them were pouring forth two storms of death. The British position was raked through and through by the fire of a thousand guns. Shrapnel seemed to rain from the clouds scattering death and wounds everywhere. The air was filled with its ferocious whine like that of a hurricane.
John, having no messages to carry, continued to watch the German advance. He had no doubt that thousands had already fallen before the hostile fire, but he could see no break in that living gray line. It came steadily on, solid, tremendous and, again he felt that it was impossible to stay it.
"The field telephone brings news that the French on our right miles away are engaged also!" shouted Wharton.
"That doesn't concern us!" John shouted back. "Look what's coming, a million Germans at least!"
The shrapnel whined terribly over his head and his horse fell, but he sprang clear.
"My horse is killed!" he cried.
"So's mine," said Carstairs, as he picked himself from the grass.
Wharton's was hurt by the same deadly shower and he dismounted to examine his wound, but the horse maddened by pain and fright broke loose and ran toward the German lines. Before he had gone far a shell swept him away in fragments.