Hood sprang from his desk and rushed to meet him.
“Well?”
“Got over their lines all right, sir,” the scout answered. “Watched our shells for an hour. Not one of them fell closer than half a mile short of their batteries.”
The General pressed his hand in silence.
“All right. It’s as I thought. You’re a brave boy, my son. You’re marked for promotion for this day’s work.”
There was nothing to be done but move his lines five miles back to the second trenches. They were being pounded into pulp without a chance to strike back.
We had exhausted half our stock of shells without scoring a hit. Our losses in men and guns had been frightful. The tragic feature of the day was the loss of trained artillerymen whose places could not be filled. It takes three years to train the man behind the gun.
By daylight the retreat of five miles had been effected. The ground in front was more favorable here for long range work. From captive balloons the position of the batteries could be located. We hoped that some of them could be reached and put out of action. If so, we would give them a taste of cold steel.
All night the great guns growled in the distance while our shattered lines retreated and reformed in the second intrenchments.
At dawn the vultures signalled the retreat and the green-gray wave of Death rolled forward with incredible swiftness.