We crouch down under the lower parapet like moles.
Immediately afterward a mad fusillade, and the German .77 guns, having
got a better range than during the previous attacks, throw shells that
burst, luckily for us, nearly one hundred yards behind our trenches.
This attack must be general, for we hear fusillades cracking far away to
the right and left.
Suddenly we tremble in spite of ourselves. The hoarse sound of the short
German bugles pierces the night with four lugubrious notes in a minor
key, funereal, deathly. It is their charge. Yells, oaths, and
vociferations are heard in front of us. Our Captain commands us to fire
by volleys: "Aim! Fire!" "They must have felt something," drawls out
some one of us in a nasal, Montmartre-like voice. Then again: "Aim!
Fire!" What sport! Then comes the cric-crac-cric-crac, sewing
machine-like hammering of our mitrailleuses. Our Captain passes the
word: "Fire low! fire low! Aim! Fire!" Volley follows volley. The
enemy's dash seems checked. Their fire slackens. We hear their officers
swearing and yelling at their men in shrill, high-pitched, penetrating
voices. Joyful exaltation gives us a sort of fever. "Aim! Fire!" But the
bouches sales make another rush at us. Driven on by their infuriated
officers, they again reach our wire network. Our Captain commands, "Fire
at will." Then, "Fire at repetition, fire until the magazine is
exhausted.
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