On many nights
those brief hours of rest were in beetroot fields in which the German
shrapnel had been searching for victims, and he awakened now and
then to listen to the well-known sound of that singing death before
dozing off again.
It was "Boot and saddle" at four o'clock in the morning, before the
dawn. It was cold then--a cold which made men tremble as with an
ague. A cup of black coffee was served, and a piece of bread.
The Russian officer of French dragoons, who has lived in British
Colonies, saw a vision then--a false mirage--of a British breakfast. It
was the thought of grilled bloaters, followed by ham and eggs, which
unmanned him for a moment. Ten minutes later the cavalry was
moving away. A detachment was sent forward on a mission of peril,
to guard a bridge. There was a bridge near Bethune one night
guarded by a little patrol. It was only when the last man had been
killed that the Germans made their way across.
Through the darkness these mounted men leaned forward over their
saddles, peering for the enemy, listening for any jangle of stirrup or
clink of bit. On that night there came a whisper from the cavalry
leader.
"They are coming! ... Quiet there!"
A file of dark shadows moved forward.
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