The Test of Scarlet: A Romance of RealityDawson, Coningsby
History
The Test of Scarlet: A Romance of Reality
Dawson, Coningsby
War stories; World War, 1914-1918 -- Fiction
While the heavens were raining brimstone and fire up front, his back-country was faring no better, for every battery position, strong-point, support-trench, cross-road, regimental headquarters and camp of which we had knowledge was kept under continual bombardment by our siege-guns and heavies. Meanwhile our cavalry of the air were flying low along his roads, by which retreat was possible, machine-gunning and bombing. It was like stopping up all the holes and smoking a wild beast out of his lair. The remnants of his Front-line garrison, who had not been pulverised by our tanks or buried by our shelling, threw away their arms and came streaming through the dawn to encounter the mercy of our bayonets. Later, those who had been taken prisoners, straggled in groups of twos and threes past our guns. They looked more like animals than men, their eyes glaring, their heads nodding, their steps tottering. Some of them walked shufflingly, like blinded men, groping for their direction. Others ran panting at a wolf-trot, as if they still felt that they were pursued by death. All of them were polluted with the unspeakable stench of carnage; behind the smoke of battle, before we saw them, we could smell them coming.
If the weather conditions favoured our infantry and tanks, they were even more favourable to ourselves. Had there been no fog, the moment we opened fire our flashes would have been spotted, our positions on the map discovered and our batteries wiped out. As it was our flashes, as seen through the fog from the enemy’s commanding height of land, must have appeared a composite blur of flame, flickering across the landscape for miles from right to left. He made a strenuous effort to bombard us, but was hopelessly inaccurate and out for range. After shelling us in a random fashion for perhaps fifteen minutes, he seemed to get wind of the disaster that had happened up front and, putting his guns out of action, drew them back. When he opened up again, his shells came slowly, as though from a great distance, and landed anywhere and everywhere, haphazard.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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