Another two are toppled over by the scouts in the barns,
and then cars are after them, still spitting out an unending hail of
lead.
It seems impossible that even a fly could live in such a stream of
bullets, yet out of the dozen three get round the bend, and, galloping
madly, make for the only spot where they can leave the road and get
across country. Even the automobile and auto-mitrailleuse men cannot
follow them there.
These fellows seem perfectly satisfied with a bag of nine, obtained
without a scratch. All are dead, one of them with over twenty wounds in
him. Two horses are stone dead, and three others have to be put out of
their misery. The other four are contentedly standing at the roadside
munching grass, one with a hind leg lifted a few inches off the ground.
The bodies of the dead Germans are laid side by side in a field to await
burial. The uniforms are stripped of everything that can be removed,
buttons and shoulder straps. The men in the cars take the water bottles,
swords, and revolvers as mementos.
I imperfectly understood the real meaning of this scrap. I had thought
it was an encounter between stray forces. A talk with the driver of an
armed car, however, enlarged my perspective. It was a meeting of the
outposts of two great opposing armies, one of which was at Douai, the
other at Cambrai.
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