But the minutes passed, and the mist melted almost entirely away, and still the guns were silent.  At last they moved off, and began to ascend the slope.  They were only just clear of the place when there was a whistle, a shriek, a bang and a roar.  The explosion was two or three times greater than anything they had heard before.  The very noise was intimidating, paralysing, and before they had had time to rally their nerves and collect themselves, before the awakened echoes had died away in the woods above, a second shell, as mighty as the first, sailed over their heads and exploded as titanically as it had done.  This was the first occasion on which the British Armies had been brought face to face with the German super-heavy artillery.  Naturally the result was a little disconcerting.

Tons of death-dealing metal and explosive were being hurled through the air as if Atlas were hurling stars about.  There was something elemental, and superhuman about such colossal force.  One felt like a pygmy in a Battle of the Gods.

They were profoundly ignorant of anything that was happening.  Everything was normal, except the roar of guns.  There was not even a sign of the cavalry being driven in.  The only thing to do was to keep on until an order came, or something definite happened.

The road had turned into a village called Moussy, and was now running parallel to the river, along the side of the slope.  An order was passed along to “keep down under cover of the right bank,” so they advanced, half crouching, about half a mile.

Then, with a suddenness that amazed him, the Subaltern saw the Platoon in front begin to scramble hastily over the bank, and run off directly up the hill.  No order was given, he could see no explanation for such a move.  He hesitated for a second, wondering whether it would not be better to find out what was happening before he moved his Platoon.  But battles are sometimes lost by just such pauses, so he waved his arm, signalling to deploy and extend to the right.  A second or so later his men were in line with the other Platoon, advancing over a green field towards a bank.  Their rifles were loaded, bayonets fixed, bodies bent forward—­ready for anything.

They did not have long to wait.

Another “Jack Johnson” landed in front of them.  They could see the earth as it flew upwards the other side of the hedge.  Was it a chance shot, or would the Germans land a direct “hit” next time?  That was the question that worried the Subaltern as he advanced to the hedge.  He was also puzzled as to what was really happening, or what he was expected to do.  Not another Officer was in sight.

In a few seconds the bank was reached.  Here he made a temporary halt for the men to recover their breath.  Men cannot be expected to shoot well if they cannot breathe.

Half a minute passed, and he began to consider the advisability of sending out several scouts to reconnoitre, as the whole responsibility of command in that part seemed to rest with him.