Raising his head a little he saw the ruined
buildings of Chastel melting away entirely under the tremendous fire of
the great French field guns. House after house was springing into flames
and wall after wall was crumbling down in fragments. German guns were
replying fast, but their position amid falling masonry was much worse
than that of the French in the open.
John was lying in the snow near Bougainville, with the shells from both
sides hissing and shrieking in a storm over their heads. He was used to
being under fire and he knew that none of these missiles was intended
for them, but he could not restrain a quiver of apprehension now and
then, lest some piece of shrapnel, falling short, should find him. It
was always the shrapnel with the hideous whine and shriek and its
tearing wound that they dreaded most. The clean little rifle bullet,
which if it did not kill did not hurt much, was infinitely more welcome.
"How long will this go on?" John asked of Bougainville; his voice could
be heard as an undertone in the roar of the battle.
"Not long, because at present we have the advantage. The Germans know
that they're worse off in the town than they would be outside. Our guns
are bringing tons and tons of brick and stone about their ears. Hark to
our splendid artillery, Mr. Scott! See how it sweeps Chastel!"
The French fire always increasing in volume was most accurate and
deadly.
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