Ten o'clock
He thrust the fabric into his mouth and bit it , holding it tight between his lips . That patched the hole ; there was no other . He breathed again without choking . Ten o'clock ! From over the German front-line trenches , a half mile or more forward , the storm of the French artillery fire had lifted -- lifted to add to the cyclone of shells sweeping the reserve lines . The German star-shells , rising and floating and glaring constellations , spread their garish light over the front , and showed the French charging forward in the open . They rushed onward , few falling , almost unopposed .