All was now ready. The French trenches were packed with men, waiting for the guns to cease fire and the order to advance. Meanwhile the greatest bombardment that the world had ever known was in progress. General Joffre had instructed his artillery commanders to smash up the enemy's trenches, and to destroy their dug-outs in such a fashion "that may make it possible for my men to march to the assault with their rifles at the shoulder." It is impossible to describe in words the awful din of the guns. The sky overhead was a canopy of flying shells, and a rain of death fell upon the German trenches. Wire entanglements were blown into a myriad fragments; concreted trenches were swept into shapeless ruin, and the troops holding them were buried alive in their dug-outs. Hundreds of men went mad through sheer terror. The big shells raised huge geysers of earth and smoke wherever they fell, and the French gunners, stripped to the waist, never ceased or slackened their fire for three days and two nights. Upon and behind the German trenches a cascade of fire continued to fall; the enemy could neither advance nor retreat. At 5.30 on the morning of 25th September the _réveillé_ rang out along the French lines. It was a gray, dismal morning, but the men were in good heart. They drank their morning coffee, looked to their equipment, and waited for the word that would launch them against the foe. Every man wore a patch of white calico on his back, so that the French gunners might know their own men, and not fire upon them. At 9.5 the regimental flags were unrolled; for the first time in this war the troops were to go into action with colours flying.