My good friend of the auto-mitrailleuse smiled, rose, and buttoned up
his coat. "Come with me," he invited.
At the barrier we were stopped, but luck had not deserted me, for in the
Sergeant in charge of the pickets I recognized another cafe acquaintance
of the previous night. We shook hands, exchanged cigarettes, and
proceeded up and down numerous streets, bearing always southward in the
direction of the firing, until the open country was reached.
My companion suddenly caught hold of my arm and we both jumped up the
bank at the side of the road to let a long string of artillery drivers
trot past on their way back for more ammunition. Another cloud of dust,
and coming up behind us was a fresh lot of shells on the way out to the
firing line.
Right up in the sky ahead suddenly appeared a ball of yellow greeny
smoke, which grew bigger and bigger, and then "boom" came the sound of a
gun about three seconds afterward. A shell had burst in the air about
300 yards away. Another and another came--all about the same place. They
appeared to come from the direction of Bapaume.
"Bad, very bad," commented my companion. And so it appeared to me, for
the Germans were dropping their shells from the southeast, at least one
kilometer over range.
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