Franco-Prussian War, 1870-1871 -- Fiction; War stories
Then General Douay, while the German artillery was thus preparing the
way for the decisive movement that should make them masters of the
Calvary, resolved to make one last desperate attempt to regain
possession of the hill. He dispatched his orders, and throwing himself
in person among the fugitives of Dumont’s division, succeeded in
forming a column which he sent forward to the plateau. It held its
ground for a few minutes, but the bullets whistled so thick, the naked,
treeless fields were swept by such a tornado of shot and shell, that it
was not long before the panic broke out afresh, sweeping the men adown
the slopes, rolling them up as straws are whirled before the wind. And
the general, unwilling to abandon his project, ordered up other
regiments.
A staff officer galloped by, shouting to Colonel de Vineuil as he
passed an order that was lost in the universal uproar. Hearing, the
colonel was erect in his stirrups in an instant, his face aglow with
the gladness of battle, and pointing to the Calvary with a grand
movement of his sword:
“Our turn has come at last, boys!” he shouted. “Forward!”
A thrill of enthusiasm ran through the ranks at the brief address, and
the regiment put itself in motion. Beaudoin’s company was among the
first to get on its feet, which it did to the accompaniment of much
good-natured chaff, the men declaring they were so rusty they could not
move; the gravel must have penetrated their joints. The fire was so
hot, however, that by the time they had advanced a few feet they were
glad to avail themselves of the protection of a shelter trench that lay
in their path, along which they crept in an undignified posture, bent
almost double.
“Now, young fellow, look out for yourself!” Jean said to Maurice;
“we’re in for it. Don’t let ’em see so much as the end of your nose,
for if you do they will surely snip it off, and keep a sharp lookout
for your legs and arms unless you have more than you care to keep.
Those who come out of this with a whole skin will be lucky.”
Maurice did not hear him very distinctly; the words were lost in the
all-pervading clamor that buzzed and hummed in the young man’s ears. He
could not have told now whether he was afraid or not; he went forward
because the others did, borne along with them in their headlong rush,
without distinct volition of his own; his sole desire was to have the
affair ended as soon as possible. So true was it that he was a mere
drop in the on-pouring torrent that when the leading files came to the
end of the trench and began to waver at the prospect of climbing the
exposed slope that lay before them, he immediately felt himself seized
by a sensation of panic, and was ready to turn and fly. It was simply
an uncontrollable instinct, a revolt of the muscles, obedient to every
passing breath.
Some of the men had already faced about when the colonel came hurrying
up.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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