Pretty soon we caught up with the column
that was headed for the right wing. At that hour it was still in
motion, which probably meant forced marching for an indefinite time.
Viewed against the sunset yellow, the figures of the dragoons stood up
black and clean, as conventionalized and regular as though they had all
been stenciled on that background. Seeing next the round, spiked
helmets of the cannoneers outlined in that weird half-light, I knew of
what those bobbing heads reminded me. They were like pictures of Roman
centurions.
Within a few minutes the afterglow lost its yellowish tone and burned as
a deep red flare. As we swung off into a side road the columns were
headed right into that redness, and turning to black cinder-shapes as
they rode. It was as though they marched into a fiery furnace, treading
the crimson paths of glory--which are not glorious and probably never
were, but which lead most unerringly to the grave.
A week later, when we learned what had happened on the right wing, and
of how the Germans had fared there under the battering of the Allies,
the thought of that open furnace door came back to me.
Pages:
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315