Adventure Magazine Cover — page 26: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

16 mounted figures dashed, one, two together, another. “Some one’s being run away with,” guessed the Yank. The sergeant fumbled at his whistle- cord, then put his foot into the stirrup and gathered his reins. His face was very stern. 3 A yellow light gleamed in the fog Se a*3 above their heads. The sergeant’s horse reared and plunged, the sergeant was hurled to the ground and his horse bounded away. The Yank grabbed for his own bridle, but missed, and his horse went plunging and kicking out of sight. Crack-crack-BANG! There was a rumble, low and thunderous, like the sound of a thousand kettledrums. Louder it swelled and louder. There were yells from the fog, shrieks, commands, cries for help. The thunder came nearer. It was the pounding of thousands of galloping hoofs. “They’re chargin’ us!” cried the sergeant. ‘Run for the ’orses!”’ The Yank ran as fast as he could, his heart pounding and his breath coming in gasps. Thank God he had his sword! A wave of horses surged at him from the mist, charging down directly upon him, necks outstretched and nostrils wide. The Yank stood still, held out his sword directly in front of him and prepared to die. No lance lowered at his breast, no sword flickered at him. He saw flying stirrups, reins dragging on the ground, spare shoes flying on pommels, empty saddles. “Our own horses!”’ he cried. Their own horses, the mounts of the bri- gade, stampeded by the firing! A terrific shriek—BERRAM! A sheet of flame, a hot breath in the Yank’s face, and he was hurled to the ground. He was up, though, in a second’s time, running blindly through the cloud of dust. Ashell had burst in the midst of the stampeding horses and he had no desire to see its wreckage. He collided with the ser- geant, who had been trying to see what had . become of him. CRACK! “Steady all!” cried the sergeant. “It’s a dismounted attack! They’re firin’ at the guns! Ah, —— them, I knew they’d fetch us bad luck.” He pointed to where bursting shrapnel jeweled the fog above the southern field. Adventure Another shell struck in the village. Rifles cracked. The Yank, still reeling from the shock of the shell’s explosion, and trembling from the narrowness of his escape from being trampled to death, shook his head to try to clear his mind. Beyond the town, above the fields, yellow flames stabbled the mist where the enemy guns thundered. Machine-guns chattered, men shouted and cried, the field by the fac- tory where the British guns were was all alight with bursting shells. Tumult, hor- ror, shrieks, confusion indescribable. The incessant bursting of the shells was un- bearable. The Yank and the sergeant huddled in the shelter of the house, unable to speak, unable to make themselves heard if they could have formed the words. Both had been in action before, the battles of the pre- vious week, Mons, Landrecies, Auregnies, Cambrai, Le Cateau had been stern enough, but they had’ known beforehand of the ap- proach of conflict, they had fought in the daylight, and could see the enemy. This sudden violent attack, this savage firing from the fog; the terrific onslaught of a hidden foe, was a different matter. The two men felt themselves alone in all this sea of horror. Rifles barking, shells banging, horses galloping, whether their own stam- peding or the enemy charging, they could not tell. | : The Yank was possessed with that deep scarlet terror that seizes a man alone on a battlefield, under the stress of a sudden and vigorous attack. He was unable to tell if any of his comrades live:l or not, he could not discover if the’ enemy had destroyed the brigade immediately, or if the British were making resistance, there was such a of sound. | Had the Germans smothered the town with gunfire, or was the brigade replying? Certainly the horse battery had not been put entirely out of action. Three of its six guns coughed bravely. Not rapidly though, not with the same quick flashing, like flame running along a streak of oil, that showed in the fog where the enemy held the heights, but slowly, painfully, like the snarling of a wounded animal, a slow heavy fire that spoke of wounded gunners, of short crews, and of lack of ammunition. The Yank looked away, toward the east, where machine-guns rattled. There were Go NOOK 1 @)