I can speak no more. We go crawling along another 500 meters. My revolver bangs along on the ground at my left; my fieldglass at my right. For a moment I think of the droll problem given to the officer at the military examination: "What would you do if you saw artillery unfold before you, infantry on your left, and artillery against your flank on the right?" Answer: "I'd order: Take off helmets and pray!"
Take off helmets and pray! Yes, there is now no help for it. Now it's a case of dying decently like gentlemen.
"No running away, men! We're no Frenchmen!"
A minute's stop to take breath, at yon hay-rick on the left. So, there they're advancing, in a gay company, the blue-frocks!
"Left, riflemen, along the church yard wall, stand! Rifle fire!"
And two groups are daring enough to stand upright and fire, although the machine gun fire is sweeping us again. The man next to me is loading his gun; suddenly he throws up an arm:
"Hell! That's pretty warm!" A bullet has passed midway through the cover of his rifle barrel.
"Go on! Slowly! One at a time! Don't crowd!"
On the road we find a man of the second column, pressed against a tree.
"Where is the battalion?"