The white lights, with all the accusing whiteness of the fingers of a thousand dead, cease their groping and point to the farther side of No Man's Land. They come! Black in the whiteness of that intense light, the wave rolls up. The silent plain crawls with running, staggering, falling, crawling men. The gray-white expanse speckles rapidly with its spotting of dead. Into the barrage of fire the wave plunges. It is the end, surely, nothing can get through. The miracle of escape is demonstrated again. If the masses be large enough, you cannot kill them all. With two-thirds dead, ten thousand men break through. They plunge forward with lowered heads and bristle of bayonets. Every third man is a bomb-thrower. "Let them come nearer, boys!" Every man holds his breath. "Fire!" A solid blast of flame outlines the fire trench. In the white glare of searchlights and star-shells illumining the scene as though by a continuous river of lightning, the wave is seen to waver. Some fall flat, others sink down quietly, others, again, drop to hands and knees and crawl on, yet others, clutched by the wounded in their death-grip, free themselves with a bayonet thrust--their brothers, their comrades!--and rush on. The machine guns claim their prey by scores, by hundreds every minute. It does not stop the wave. Their eyes fixed and staring, as though they were figures in their own nightmares, they leap into the trench, hurling a last shower of hand grenades as they come. It is the butt and the steel now. They have reached the trench but they have not won it. Around each machine gun a special fight gathers. Another wave is coming. It passes through the barrage fire again and dashes for the trench, already half taken. Ah! What is that? The 75's! The strident roar of unnumbered batteries, with shells timed to the second, breaks loose behind the French lines. The second wave meets that wall of lead. It does not waver, it collapses. A third wave--how they are driven on to death, those Germans! The first wave is nearly gone now, the hand to hand struggle in the trench is nearly over and the reserves are creeping in. But the third wave? Four mines explode simultaneously. Scores of bodies are thrown in the air. Dozens are thrown down by the sheer impact of the air. The moment has come. "Africans! On!" There is no shouting as they leap over the parapet, but the glitter of their eyes suffices. The third wave breaks and flees. "Forward, my children, forward!" The cry of the officers runs along the line. The men do not need to be told. The Germans have failed. Now is the counter-assault. Now they have a taste of their own medicine. "Forward, my children, forward!" But they, too, have machine guns; they, too, have rifles; they, too, have shrapnel and their wire entanglements stretch before us. The French fall as their men fall, but the French commanders will not waste life like theirs. "Fall back, my children, they have had enough!"