The Meuse, in the course of centuries, has
cut its way through the rampart of hills which surround Verdun, and we
are attacking the place from three directions. On the north we are
slowly forcing the French back on either river bank--a very costly
proceeding, as each wing must advance an equal amount, or the one that
advances is enfiladed from across the river.
We are also slowly creeping forward from the east and north-east in the
direction of Douaumont.
I am attached to a 105-cm. battery, a young Major von Markel in
command, a most charming fellow. I spent all to-day in the advanced
observing position with a young subaltern called Grabel, also a nice
young fellow. I was in position at 6 a.m., and, as apparently is common
here, mist hides everything from view until the sun attains a certain
strength. Our battery was supporting the attack on the north side of
the river, though the battery itself was on the south side, and firing
over a hill called L'Homme Mort.
Von Markel told me that the fighting here has not been previously
equalled in the war, such is the intensity of the combat and the price
each side is paying.
I could see for myself that this was so, and the whole atmosphere of
the place is pregnant with the supreme importance of this struggle,
which may well be the dying convulsions of decadent France.
His Imperial Majesty himself has arrived on the scene to witness the
final triumph of our arms, and all agree that the end is imminent.
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