"Down! Rapid fire!"
The line is prone and again we are blazing desperately into the wood, and can catch no glimpse of our enemy. Never a single arm raised against us, never the eye of a single man to challenge us. The wood, the green wood, is murdering us from afar, before a single human face comes in view.
And while to the right and left of me the rifle fire chatters incessantly, the grim mockery of it maddens my blood, and makes me see red before my eyes. I see scale-armor and visors ... high in their stirrups the knights burst blazing out of the wood, and I, a reckless horseman of the past, I leap into the saddle—my broad sword flashes clear and kisses the morning breeze—and now up and at them like a thunderbolt. Then eyes are flashing into mine and hands are raised for the mêlée—and stroke for stroke, breast to breast, the pride of youthful, virile strength.... Ha-ha-ha-ha! What has happened? Where have horse and rider vanished? Where is my sword? We are not even charging men. Machines are trained on us. Why, we are only charging machines. And the machine triumphs deep into our very flesh. And the machine is draining the life-blood from our veins, and lapping it up in bucketsful. Those who have been hit are already lying mown down in swathes behind us and are writhing on their wounds. And yet they are racing up behind us in their hundreds—young, healthy human flesh for the machines to butcher.
"Up! Get on! At the double!"
The gallant young subaltern dashes on ... he is waving his sword above his head recklessly ... a picture for a painter. I am rushing after him ... his cheer in my ears ... then the gallant vision begins to sway ... the sword flies from his grasp—the subaltern stumbles and falls face forward in the short, stiff stubble ... then I race past him ... I can hear nothing except the uncanny buzz coming out of the wood ... I literally feel how the lead is splashing into our ranks, how men are breaking down to the right and left of me.... "Down! Rapid fire!" ... I throw myself on my face, my rifle at the ready.... Why does the order fail to reach us? No shout comes from the subaltern, none from the non corns.... the nearest man a good twenty paces away ... and then one other ... only we three....
The first line is lying shot down in the stubble ... what's the next thing? The ground becomes alive behind us ... and clattering, panting and shouting ... and again the wood rumbles sullenly ... there they are, lying flat, breathing hard ... never a word ... rifle to the ready ... and shot after shot ... those are the sixth and seventh companies ... they have filled up our gaps.
"Up, up! At the double!"
The head is plunging on, the body after it, into the zone of bullets, and dashing forward with eyes fixed greedily on the ground to spy out the nearest molehill when we fling ourselves down. And when the excited "Down!" o'erleaps itself, we too tumble down as if we had been swept away. And look, it is advancing to meet us, that murderous wood.... "Up! At the double!" ... who can tell whether he has been hit or not?... behind there, out of the undergrowth—that's where it came from ... that's where the streak of bullets flashed ... there between the white larch trunks the beam of lead leaped out to meet us ... over there, behind that green wall, that's where Murder is sitting, and shooting our arms and legs away from our trunks. Slay her as she has slain us. Rend her to pieces, as she has rent us.
"Up! At the double!"
The body rages on in the whirl of the tempest—the wood, the wood!... the last muscle is still straining for the wood ... as if the soul had leaped free of the body, so the body chases after it—toward the wood ... lungs perforated by shot are running still; entrails riddled by bullets are still pressing on toward it ... and if you are not hit in the head, you are still jumping up once more; and if you fall, you are crawling on all fours—toward the wood....