Five minutes later we reach the parapet--that immovable rampart
over which we have peeped so often and so cautiously with our
periscopes--and clamber up a sandbag staircase on to the summit. We
note that our barbed wire has all been cut away, and that another
battalion, already extended into line, is advancing fifty yards ahead
of us. Bullets are pinging through the air, but the guns are once more
silent. Possibly they are altering their position. Dotted about upon
the flat ground before us lie many kilted figures, strangely still, in
uncomfortable attitudes.
A mile or so upon our right we can see two towers--pit-head
towers--standing side by side. They mark the village of Loos, where
another Scottish Division is leading the attack. To the right of Loos
again, for miles and miles and miles, we know that wave upon wave of
impetuous French soldiers is breaking in a tempest over the shattered
German trenches. Indeed, we conjecture that down there, upon our
right, is where the Biggest Push of all is taking place. Our duty is
to get forward if we can, but before everything to engage as many
German troops and guns as possible. Even if we fight for a week or
more, and only hold our own, we shall have done the greater part of
what was required of us. But we hope to do more than that.
Upon our left lies the Hohenzollern. It is silent; so we know that
it has been captured.
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