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Little glinting lights were playing about it, like confetti shining in
the sun. That was German shrapnel. Eruptions of red flame and black
earth vomited out of the hill. That was German high explosive. For a
time on Monday, September 27th, it was the storm-center of battle.
"What's that?" asked an artillery staff-officer, with his ear to the
field telephone. "What's that?. . . Hullo!. . . Are you there?. . .
The Guards have been kicked off Fosse 8. . . Oh, hell!"
From all parts of the field of battle such whispers came to listening
men and were passed on to headquarters, where other men listened. This
brigade was doing pretty well. That was hard pressed. The Germans were
counter-attacking heavily. Their barrage was strong and our casualties
heavy. "Oh, hell!" said other men. From behind the mist came the news
of life and death, revealing things which no onlooker could see.
I went closer to see--into the center of the arc of battle, up by the
Loos redoubt, where the German dead and ours still lay in heaps.


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