"I feel a bit
queer," says Bill Williams to a veteran friend. "Never mind--'taint
every one durst say that," says the friend. "Whoo-o-sh!" a muffled
thump, and the veteran falls forward, dropping his rifle. He struggles
up on hands and knees, but a rush of blood chokes him, and he drops with
a groan. He will lie there for a long time before his burning throat is
moistened by a cup of water, and he knows only too well that the surgeon
will merely shake his head when he sees him. The brigade still advances;
gradually the sputtering crackle in their front grows into a low steady
roar; a stream of lead whistles in the air, and the long lurid line of
flame glows with the sustained glare of a fire among furze. Men fall at
every yard, but the hoarse murmur of the dogged advance never ceases. At
last the time comes for the rush. The ranks are trimmed up by
imperceptible degrees; the men set their teeth, and a strange eager look
comes over many a face. The eyes of the youngsters stare glassily; they
can see the wood from which the enemy must be dislodged at any price,
but they can form no definite ideas; they merely grip their rifles and
go on mechanically. The word is given--the dark lines dash forward; the
firing from the wood breaks out in a crash of fury--there is a long
harsh rattle, then a chance crack like a thunder-clap, and then a
whirring like the spinning of some demoniac mill.
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