At four o'clock the enemy piled up a barrage on the road and concentrated their fire on the farm: it rained projectiles of all calibers--of all big calibers, I know. In a circle of 325 yards radius, there fell, certainly, four _marmites_ every second, of a caliber equal or superior to 21 centimeters. The ground trembled and a smoke, acrid and suffocating, enveloped us. The 150 timed-shell from time to time rent the air with their furious screams like those of a cat when you step on its tail---- During my whole campaign never have I seen an equal density of fire. Torn bodies of skirmishers were scattered here and there in this zone of almost certain death. Continuing our way we had escaped death more than once in this violent fire. We were covered with spurts of earth from bursting projectiles which fell close to us and those that fell around struck us with ricochetting fragments of steel. As there was not urgent need of reaching Ornes, we resolved to tarry a few instants in one of the shelters on the farm. We had 175 yards to go in a rain of steel and well-directed fire, or as dizzy a route as the ascension of Mount Cervin, for example. We entered the telephone post at the precise moment the _poilus_ ascertained all underground lines had been cut---- The shells continued to fall so fast around us that we had the impression of being on the inside of a hermetically sealed autobus rumbling with great speed over a rough pavement. A projectile burst at one corner of the shelter which crumbled from the force of the explosion and threw us all together in a heap--No panic! I sensed the feeling that our last hour had come and the men, picking themselves up in silence, crowded into the corners save one who cried, gesticulating with his arms: "Is--is that what you call a demolishing fire?" * * * * * Our objective was Ornes and if it became necessary to die I avowed that I would prefer to fall in the light, my eyes turned toward the sun. "If die we must," I say to LeBlond, on leaving the dugout, "I would rather be killed outside----" "I am with you----" Again we traveled over a space of 350 yards in a haze of fire and smoke---- A _marmite_ fell a few steps away, covering us with dirt--I see my comrade stagger, struck on the head with a large mass. Fortunately it is only a ball of turf which knocks him violently to the ground---- He picks himself up, and in a ringing voice: "Yes, if that one will not get me a vacation, now, you will not be very _chic_!" * * * * * Some hours later we reached Ornes, having had to go through the barrage at Chambrettes, and another, of 305's, on the cavernous road along Chaume Wood. This road, so quiet a few days before, had become a veritable hell.