The firing grew hotter, and we soon left the main road and turned down a lane. We were pushed on at a smart pace. Our faces were glowing from thirst and heat. The column was enveloped in a thick cloud of dust. The taste of dust instead of water was on our tongues. The dust was lying thick as a layer of flour on our cheeks.
And we hurried on without a word. A quickset hedge barred the view on either side. Nothing but heavy footfalls, walking packs, black, clattering pannikins, rifles at the slope—hustle and dust.... Then some one blundered over a stone in his way, and looked as if he were going to fall into the back of the man in front of him ... but no shout of laughter greets it—we are pushing on almost at the double—at times, when a gap in the hedge slips past, we can catch glimpses of the line of skirmishers advancing over open country—now at length comes a check.... Halt! Order arms! ... and I am scrambling through a gap in the hedge on to the open fields ... open order at five paces distance.... The long-drawn line of skirmishers advances, rifles at the ready ... in front of us nothing but green fields in sight. In the heart of them gleams the crude yellow of a field of mustard. Ahead of us, just opposite our front, a dark wood ... not a trace of the enemy in sight. On our right they have already pushed on the advance line. On our left the skirmishers are just breaking through the hedge and opening out to extend our line of attack.
The heavy noise in the air is incessant.
I can't see where they are firing, and I can't see what they are firing at. The air is heavy with iron thunder. It closes like a ring round my chest. I am distinctly conscious that my chest is reverberating like a tense sounding-board——
What on earth is that?
A sound like the cracking of whips from somewhere or other ... the sound is so sharp, so distant, so intermittent, as if it were coming from the rifle-range....
Then—by my side a man falls down, falls on his rifle, and lies still, never stirs again ... shot through the head, clean through the brain ... that's what the cracking of whips means; it's coming from over there, out of the wood. Somewhere over there the enemy's sharpshooters are lying and lining its edge and opening fire on us.
What's the next thing?
Lie down—Mark distance—Cover!
But no order comes. We push on toward the wood undeterred, as if these bullets did not concern us in any way. The sharpshooters' fire is not hot enough as yet; we have not, so far, got into sufficiently close touch with the enemy.