"
"Troublesome!" Translate that word, and it means this: Private Brown and
Private Jones are lying behind the same low bank. Jones raises his head;
there comes a sound like "Roo-o-osh--pht!"--then a horrible thud. Jones
glares, grasps at nothing with convulsed hands, and rolls sideways with
a long shudder. The ball took him in the temple. Serjeant Morrison says,
"Now, men, try for that felled log! Double!" A few men make a short
rush, and gain the solid cover; but one throws up his hands when half
way, gives a choking yell, springs in the air, and falls down limp. The
same thing is going on over a mile of country, while the shell-fire is
gradually gaining power--and we may be sure that the enemy are suffering
at the hands of our marksmen. And now suppose that an infantry brigade
receives orders to charge. "Charge!" The word carries magnificent poetic
associations, but, alas, it is a very prosaic affair nowadays! The lines
move onward in short rushes, and it seems as if a swarm of ants were
migrating warily. The strident voices of the officers ring here and
there: the men edge their way onward: it seems as if there were no
method in the advance; but somehow the loose wavy ranks are kept well
in hand, and the main movement proceeds like machinery.
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