The men fell upon their faces and huddled close to the earth, too happy if some friendly ant-heap gave them a precarious shelter.

And always, tier above tier, the lines of rifle fire rippled and palpitated in front of them.

The infantry fired also, and fired, and fired--but what was there to fire at?
An occasional eye and hand over the edge of a trench or behind a stone is no mark at seven hundred yards.

It would be instructive to know how many British bullets found a billet that day.
The cavalry was useless, the infantry was powerless--there only remained the guns.

When any arm is helpless and harried it always casts an imploring eye upon the guns, and rarely indeed is it that the gallant guns do not respond.