They began to be infected with the same ardor as the directors, shouting
and swinging their arms in the midst of the thundering. The empty
capsules were mounting up in thick layers behind the cannon. Fire! . . .
always, fire!
"We must sprinkle them well," yelled the chiefs. "We must give a good
soaking to the groves where the Boches are hidden."
So the mouths of '75 rained without interruption, inundating the remote
thickets with their shells.
Inflamed by this deadly activity, frenzied by the destructive celerity,
dominated by the dizzying sway of the ruby leaves, Lacour and Desnoyers
found themselves waving their hats, leaping from one side to another as
though they were dancing the sacred dance of death, and shouting with
mouths dry from the acrid vapor of the powder. . . . "Hurrah! . . .
Hurrah!"
The automobile rode all the afternoon long, stopping only when it met
long files of convoys. It traversed uncultivated fields with skeletons
of dwellings, and ran through burned towns which were no more than a
succession of blackened facades.
"Now it is your turn," said the senator to Desnoyers. "We are going to
see your son."
At nightfall, they ran across groups of infantry, soldiers with long
beards and blue uniforms discolored by the inclemency of the weather.
They were returning from the intrenchments, carrying over the hump of
their knapsacks, spades, picks and other implements for removing the
ground, that had acquired the importance of arms of combat.
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