Late in the afternoon word was passed down the line that the German guns had been put out of action, that the enemy was retiring and that at 5.30 sharp the whole Belgian line would advance and take the town with the bayonet.  Under cover of artillery fire so continuous that it sounded like thunder in the mountains, the Belgian infantry climbed out of the trenches and, throwing aside their knapsacks, formed up behind the road preparatory to the grand assault.  A moment later a dozen dog batteries came trotting up and took position on the left of the infantry.  At 5.30 to the minute the whistles of the officers sounded shrilly and the mile-long line of men swept forward cheering.  They crossed the roadway, they scrambled over ditches, they climbed fences, they pushed through hedges, until they were within a hundred yards of the line of buildings which formed the outskirts of the town.  Then hell itself broke loose.  The whole German front, which for several hours past had replied but feebly to the Belgian fire, spat a continuous stream of lead and flame.  The rolling crash of musketry and the ripping snarl of machine-guns were stabbed by the vicious pom-pom-pom-pom-pom of the quick-firers.  From every window of the three-storied chateau opposite us the lean muzzles of mitrailleuses poured out their hail of death.  I have seen fighting on four continents, but I have never witnessed so deadly a fire as that which wiped out the head of the Belgian column as a sponge wipes out figures on a slate.

The Germans had prepared a trap and the Belgians had walked—­or rather charged—­directly into it.  Three minutes later the dog batteries came tearing back on a dead run.  That should have been a signal that it was high time for us to go, but, in spite of the fact that a storm was brewing, we waited to see the last inning.  Then things began to happen with a rapidity that was bewildering.  Back through the hedges, across the ditches, over the roadway came the Belgian infantry, crouching, stooping, running for their lives, Every now and then a soldier would stumble, as though he had stubbed his toe, and throw out his arms and fall headlong.  A bullet had hit him.  The road was sprinkled with silent forms in blue and green.  The fields were sprinkled with them too.  One man was hit as he was struggling to get through a hedge and died standing, held upright by the thorny branches.  Men with blood streaming down their faces, men with horrid crimson patches on their tunics, limped, crawled, staggered past, leaving scarlet trails behind them.  A young officer of chasseurs, who had been recklessly exposing himself while trying to check the retreat of his men, suddenly spun around on his heels, like one of those wooden toys which the curb vendors sell, and then crumpled up, as though all the bone and muscle had gone out of him.  A man plunged into a half-filled ditch and lay there, with his head under water.  I could see the water slowly redden.