"One-half of the brigade, two thousand men, is our enemy," he
explained; "and we're going to fight them. The battalion that's
helping us is on in front, and it will soon be fighting. When it's
hard pressed we'll go up to help, for we're the supports. It won't be
long till we hear the firing."
An hour's brisk march was followed by a halt, when we were ordered
to draw well into the left of the road to let the company guns go by.
Dark-nosed and cold, they wheeled past, the horses sweating as they
strained at the carriage shafts; the drivers, by deft handling,
pulling the steeds clear of the ruts; out in front they swung, and the
battalion closed up and resumed its march behind.
The rain ceased and a cold sun shot feeble rays over the sullen
December landscape. Again a halt was called; the brigadier-general,
followed by two officers and several orderlies, galloped up, and a
hurried consultation with our colonel took place. In a moment the
battalion moved ahead only to come to a dead stop again after ten
minutes' slow marching, and find a company detailed off to guard the
rear. The other companies, led by their officers, turned off the road
and moved in sections across the newly furrowed and soggy fields. A
level sweep of December England broken only by leafless hedgerows and
wire fencing stretched out in front towards a wooded hillock, that
stood up black against the sky-line two miles away. The enemy held
this wood; we could hear his guns booming and now considered ourselves
under shell fire.
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