The first line of the attack has now reached the ravine. The men seize hold of tiny shrubs that grow out at overhanging angles and swing themselves down, scrambling over loose stones and sliding sand. A hail of bullets is beating upon them from the trench above and from a line of supports that has come into action higher still. The machine-guns hammer with an appalling energy that knows not fatigue. Where their aim is directed the sand spouts up as though struck by an air-blast from a hose. In that ravine the first line is more than decimated. Men stumble and fall upon their own bayonets. Corpses, hanging limply, weigh down the shrubs. With fierce shouts the survivors scramble onward. The second line has caught them up, is mingled with them. The battle-madness seethes in every head; each bullet that strikes harmlessly upon the earth is a shock of stimulation to already hyper-excited nerves. They lose their identity, lose the instinct of self-preservation in the flood of an older instinct which blinds them to all but the hazards of the ground, and sweeps them forward like demented animals frantic to assuage a thirst that consumes their tissues. A savage cry breaks automatically from every throat; the blood-congested brains, that permit the action of the muscles, unconscious of it. They reach the bottom of the ravine, not very deep, and clamber up in the comparative security of the other side. At the foot of the smooth slope which reaches to the dust-whelmed boulder-line, their officers halt them by orders, entreaties. The men lie down and open a rapid, irregular fire against the trench. More men arrive behind them, frenzied with excitement. They attempt to rush upward, are pulled back by officers, or are struck down quickly in the rain of bullets from the trench. The rifle-fire up there comes now in one long rolling crackle through the cloud of dust that flurries in answer to the continuous crashing of the shrapnel. The fire of the attack increases in sporadic bursts. On the ridge behind, the brigadier speaks a few brief words into the telephone. A minute later the shrapnel ceases to burst over the trench.