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Our friends in their own craters across the way remain strangely silent. That is always suspicious. Around 10 p.m. a man of my post yells, “Corporal! The yellow flares” In an instant I am out of our sleeping hole and fire the flare pistol skyward. In another instant, even before the flare’s light burns out, Satan’s howling fury comes crashing down in the form of a German barrage, laid out only thirty to fifty metres in front of us. The English attack or scouting patrol dissolves. Rifle shots and exploding hand grenades continue for a time, but we do not fire the machine-gun for fear of betraying its position to the English.
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