He
cheered them with pats on the shoulder, pointed out new unsuspected
enemies. Then, man by man, the thirty perspiring fighters began to
tumble. They fell forward on their faces, lay stricken on their backs,
heaved against the walls of houses, wherever the deadly fire had caught
them. The street was littered with Belgian bodies. There stood Rossiter
grinding away on his handle, snickering green-clad Belgians lying strewn
on the cobbles, a half dozen of them tense and set behind the barricade,
leveling rifles at the piles of fish. Every one was laughing, and all of
them intent on working out a picture with thrills.
The enemy guns had been growing menacing, but Rossiter and the Belgians
were very busy.
"The shells are dropping just back of us," I called to him.
"Good, good," he said, "but I haven't time for them just yet. They must
wait. You can't crowd a film."
Ten minutes passed.
"It is immense," began he, wiping his face and lighting a smoke, and
turning his handle. "Gentlemen, I thank you."
"Gentlemen, we thank you," I said.
"There's been nothing like it," he went on. "Those Liege pictures of
Wilson's at the Hippodrome were tame."
He'd got it all in, and was wasting a few feet for good measure.
Sometimes you need a fringe in order to bring out the big minute in your
action.
[Illustration: STREET FIGHTING IN ALOST.
This is part of the motion-picture which we took while the Germans were
bombarding the town.
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