"No, not a pile of them."
"Can you count them?"
Two or three seconds and then:
"I believe there are seven of them."
His words confirm my own conclusions. A few stragglers, undoubtedly, who have lost their way in this infernal mêlée of the night. At my order ten of my men face towards the right, and in each one's ear I whisper:
"Wait until I give the word to fire. Do not hurry and aim well."
The Boches have halted, hesitating, undecided; they form a dark group framed in a stillness which seems almost palpitating.
"Fire!"
A spurt of flame, followed instantly by cries of agony and terror:
"Kamerad! Kamerad!"