John had not yet seen a German, nothing but those tongues of fire licking up on the horizon, and some little whitish clouds of smoke, lifting themselves slowly above the trees, yet the thunder was no longer a rumble.

It had a deep and angry note, whose burden was death.
They must maintain their steady march directly toward the mouths of those guns.

John comprehended in those awful moments that the task of the French was terrible, almost superhuman.

If their nation was to live they must hurl back a victorious foe, practically numberless, armed and equipped with everything that a great race in a half-century of supreme thought and effort could prepare for war.

It was spirit and patriotism against the monstrous machine of fire and steel, and he trembled lest the machine could overcome anything in the world.
He was about to shout again to de Rougemont, but his words were lost in the rending crash of the French artillery.