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Updated: June 2, 2025
But Fracasse's men at the foot of the slope poured in a heavier and still heavier fire. "Down there's where we need the shells now!" spoke the thought of Dellarme's men, which he had anticipated by a word to the signal corporal, who waved his flag one two three four five times. Come on, now, with more of your special brand of death, fire-control officer!
The golden glow of the sunset was running in his veins in a paean of personal triumph. The profile turned ever so little. Now it was looking at the point where Dellarme had lain dying. Westerling noted the smile playing on the lips. It had the quality of a smile over a task completed Dellarme's smile.
His eye had the steely gleam of his rifle sight and the liver patch on his cheek was a deeper hue as he sought to avenge Eugene's death. Drowned by the racket of their own fire, not even Peterkin was hearing the whish-whish of the bullets from Dellarme's company now.
Over their heads were the muzzles of the Browns' rifles, blazing toward the road, while in the direction of the tower they saw the first charge of another regiment melting like snow under sprays of flame. They could not fire at Dellarme's men and Dellarme's men could not fire at them without leaning over the parapet. They could not go ahead.
Doctor!" which meant each time that another Brown rifle had been silenced. The litter bearers, hard pressed to remove the wounded, left the dead. Already death was a familiar sight an article of exchange in which Dellarme's men dealt freely. The man at Stransky's side had been killed outright. He lay face down on his rifle stock. His cap had fallen off.
Fountains of sod and dirt shot upward to meet descending sprays of bullets. The concussions of the earth shook the aim of Dellarme's men, blinded by smoke and dust, as they fired through a fog at bent figures whose legs were pumping fast in dim pantomime. But the guns of the Browns, also, have word that the charge has begun.
They've got to kill the last man of us for killing him! Revenge! revenge!" That cry brought back to the company all the fighting spirit of the cheery smile and with it another spirit for Dellarme's sake! which he had never taught them. "Make them pay!" "He was told to stay till noon!" "They'll find us here at noon, alive or dead!"
The brigade commander of the Grays was going to make sure that the next charge succeeded. At last Dellarme's glance toward regimental headquarters showed the flag that was the signal for withdrawal. Could he accomplish it? The first lieutenant, with a shattered arm, had gone on a litter. The old sergeant was dead, a victim of the colonial wars.
"This is no place for you!" said one of the engineers. "No, and don't waste any time, either, old man!" said another. "Back to your bulbs!" Feller did not even hear them. For the moment he was actually deaf. "Fire!" said Dellarme's whistle.
There was a perceptible shudder on Marta's part, an abrupt, tossing elevation of her head. She stared at the spot where Dellarme had lain in the garden. Dellarme's smile was back on her lips; it seemed graven there. Her eyes, which Westerling could not see, were leaping flames.
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