faces, that immediately turn up to greet
each flight of an airman, permit the strength of forces to be
estimated at such great distances.

Beyond any doubt the foe has overestimated our strength tenfold.
Otherwise he would not have put forth these tremendous efforts. His
strength, in such fortified positions, would have sufficed to hold an
entire army corps in check. And our poor weak brigade?

I lie on my belly, creeping forward. To remain standing would be
suicide.

Sst-sst-teewheet--boom-buzz--tsha! Tacktack-tacktack-tack!

It's a bad music. We are being rained upon with iron. We hear it
whistle past our ears, we feel it whizz over our helmets. Our
artillery covers us in front, so that we cannot fire at the single
bodies of advance riflemen. They are drawing to the left toward the
entrance to F. Soon the infantry bullets are striking close among us.

Nothing to be seen! Nothing to be seen!

"We must advance further!" I shout into the line of sharpshooters. The
battalion commander shouts it at the same time. He wouldn't let any
one rob him of the honor of advancing in the foremost row of riflemen.
We crawl forward on all fours. After thirty meters, halt. Still
nothing to be seen. The land rises in front of us. Fifty meters
further; eighty; a hundred. At last we have a clear view ahead. Rifles
are advanced.

"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 nea