standing, across which machine-guns were constantly playing, and over which shells were bursting. It was a terrible storm. Once he whined and started to go back, but something seemed to be calling to him, so he returned and obeyed the summons.
He was a War Dog.
The sun crept through a smoke-filled sky to the zenith.
The sun was very old, but never in its aeons of shining had it seen such a sight in brave France. The plain ran blood—little rivulets in all the low places. The turf was torn with shells.
Dead and dying men were everywhere. For a while the storm stood still, then it began to sway this way and that and finally, thank God, it rolled slowly away to the north and east. The tide had turned.
