The guns on our side of the valley had
ceased, the hurricane in the depths below had instantly spent itself,
and the birds and insects had again begun to fill our hill with
drowsy twitter and song.
But on the other, half the men were
wrapping the base of the hill in khaki, which rose higher and higher,
growing looser and less tightly wrapt as it spun upward. Halfway to
the crest there was a broad open space of green grass, and above that
a yellow bank of earth, which supported the track of the railroad.
This green space spurted with tiny geysers of yellow dust. Where the
bullets came from or who sent them we could not see. But the loose
ends of the bandage of khaki were stretching across this green space
and the yellow spurts of dust rose all around them. The men crossed
this fire zone warily, looking to one side or the other, as the
bullets struck the earth heavily, like drops of rain before a shower.
The men had their heads and shoulders bent as though they thought a
roof was about to fall on them; some ran from rock to rock, seeking
cover properly; others scampered toward the safe vantage-ground
behind the railroad embankment; others advanced leisurely, like men
playing golf. The silence, after the hurricane of sounds, was
painful; we could not hear even the Boer rifles. The men moved like
figures in a dream, without firing a shot.
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