He understood the purpose of the French commander.  It was to hurl a continuous shower of steel upon the enemy, and then when it ceased the French were to charge.  Raising his head a little he saw the ruined buildings of Chastel melting away entirely under the tremendous fire of the great French field guns.  House after house was springing into flames and wall after wall was crumbling down in fragments.  German guns were replying fast, but their position amid falling masonry was much worse than that of the French in the open.

John was lying in the snow near Bougainville, with the shells from both sides hissing and shrieking in a storm over their heads.  He was used to being under fire and he knew that none of these missiles was intended for them, but he could not restrain a quiver of apprehension now and then, lest some piece of shrapnel, falling short, should find him.  It was always the shrapnel with the hideous whine and shriek and its tearing wound that they dreaded most.  The clean little rifle bullet, which if it did not kill did not hurt much, was infinitely more welcome.

“How long will this go on?” John asked of Bougainville; his voice could be heard as an undertone in the roar of the battle.

“Not long, because at present we have the advantage.  The Germans know that they’re worse off in the town than they would be outside.  Our guns are bringing tons and tons of brick and stone about their ears.  Hark to our splendid artillery, Mr. Scott!  See how it sweeps Chastel!”

The French fire always increasing in volume was most accurate and deadly.  The famous seventy-five-millimeter gun was again proving itself the most terrible of mobile field weapons.  As walls fell, pyramids of fire shot up in many places, casting a sinister glow over the snowy earth.  But above everything rose the lofty and beautiful spire of the Gothic cathedral, still untouched.

All the time the moonlight had been steadily growing more brilliant.  Save where the burning houses and the flashing of the cannon cast a red glow a veil of silver mist, which brightened rather than obscured, hung over the snow.  John distinctly saw Germans in the town and often, too, he saw them fall.

A man with a bugle was lying in the snow near Bougainville and the little colonel reached over and touched him.  John saw the soldier put the instrument to his lips, as if he would make ready, and he knew that an important movement was at hand.  He tautened his own figure that he might be ready.  The artillery fire behind them ceased suddenly.  The air there had been roaring with thunder, and then all at once it became as silent as the grave.  The bugler leaped to his feet and blew a long and mellow note.  The Bougainville regiment and other regiments both right and left sprang up and, with a short, fierce shout, rushed upon the town.  John, his automatic in his hand, charged with them, keeping close to Bougainville.

A scattering fire of bullets carried away many, but John knew that he was not touched.  Neither was Bougainville, who, like Bonaparte at Lodi or Arcola, was now leading his men in person, waving aloft a small sword, and continually shouting to his children to follow him.  The French fell fast, but they reached the first line of the houses, and then they sent a deadly hail of their own bullets upon the defenders.