"Half way to the left, at the entrance to F., sharpshooters, stand!"
A few shots from our ranks. The blue figures falter, fall. But at the same time we have betrayed our position. And now the hail begins anew.
"They all shoot too high! Aim well, men! Every shot a bullseye!"
My voice reaches only the rows of riflemen nearest to me. The clatter and crashing is tremendous, but even more horrible is this singing and whizzing past of shells, especially when the enemy's machine guns sweep us.
"Are those some of our men?" my bugler beside me asks. "They're already standing half way down the road back of us!"
A shiver of horror creeps over us. Yes, they have enticed and held us fast in the midst of their artillery—and on the left their infantry, well protected, has advanced under cover to our flank. And now the French machine gun patters on our right, in monotonous rhythm, in this concert of hell.
Behind us there is no longer a sign of life. Our battery is gone; it must have shot away its ammunition.
"Order of the Brigade Commander: Company retire slowly!" A man at the end of our serried line near the roadside has called the order to me. The order travels by word of mouth along our line. It is a long time before it reaches the riflemen furthest left. And as soon as the slightest movement is noticeable in the beet fields, the deadly hail rattles down upon us again.
My eyeglass is covered with sweat and dirt. I tear it away. Now, as the shells strike, clouds of dirt fly into my eyes. I close them. At my left, a rifleman crawling along, nudges me:
"The dogs!" he mutters: "Now they've got us in a hell of a pinch!"