There was a dull heavy detonation beyond the hills. A moment later a strange whistling screech shrilled over our heads. I stared into the air, trying to see—I knew of course it was a shell, but I had never thought one would travel so slowly or be quite so noisy about it. The whistling shriek passed over us, changed to a dropping whine. Down the street there was a thunderous explosion followed instantly by a shattering crash. Timbers, tiles, stones, a mass of debris splashed for a moment up against the sky. The shell had fallen at the cross-roads. I stared at M. I was cold all over.
“It must have got them,” I heard myself whispering. “My God! it must have got them!”
We stared down the road. Everywhere figures in poilu blue and some in khaki, were running like rabbits towards the dugouts. It seemed to me the uncertainty was more than I could bear.
“I’m going to go and see.”
“I’ll go with you,” said M.
We stopped at the station-house and put on our helmets; then we started down the road. Just beyond the station-house we passed a little cortege of poilus carrying the body of their comrade on a stretcher-bier. They were on their way to the church. When the first shell came over I had seen the funeral procession waver, hesitate, seem uncertain for a few moments whether to proceed or to seek shelter, now, their indecision conquered, they were continuing their march with what seemed an added dignity. A limousine drew up behind us, stopped. In the back seat sat an American major.
“Give you a lift?”
We climbed in. Half way down the hill another shell shrieked over our heads, burst in front of us. We reached the cross-roads.
“Let us out, please.”
The major stared, then stopped the car. We scrambled out. The car whirled off. Two houses lay, crushed heaps of stone. In the road were three dead horses and an automobile with a crumpled radiator. That was all. Another shell struck, sending us cowering against the nearest house-wall. As far as we could see the place was utterly deserted. There was nothing to do but go back. Half-way up the hill we met a poilu, he was carrying an O. D. blouse. He asked us where the wounded American was; he had been carried into some house nearby; this was his coat. We could of course tell him nothing. The wind which had been strong all morning, was filling the air with blinding clouds of yellow dust. The shells were coming over at regular intervals, so many minutes between them; they were all falling, it seemed, in the vicinity of the cross-roads. A little further up the hill and we began to meet mule teams from the supply train driving down. The mule-skinners on their high seats looked calm enough, but a number of the mules were becoming quite unmanageable. I recognized the slim lad of seventeen with whom I had driven into Bourmont from Goncourt once after a load of canteen supplies. As each team passed, we waved our hands and wished them luck; but all the time I kept repeating to myself: