To the left of
the Eighth Battalion, which was the extreme Canadian left wing, there were
Zouaves and Turcos. These were black French Colonials. To these
unfortunates, probably the Canadians owe their near disaster.
In the far distance we saw a cloud rise as though from the earth. It was a
greeny-red color, and increased in volume as it rolled forward. It was like
a mist rising, and yet it hugged the ground, rose five or six feet, and
penetrated to every crevice and dip in the ground.
We could not tell what it was. Suddenly from out the mist we men in
reserves saw movement. Coming toward us, running as though Hell as it
really was had been let loose behind them, were the black troops from
Northern Africa. Poor devils, I do not blame them. It was enough to make
any man run. They were simple-minded fellows. They were there to fight for
France, but their minds could not grasp the significance of the enemy
against whom they were pitted. The gas rolled on and they fled. Their
officers vainly tried to stem the flying tide of them. Their heels barely
seemed to touch the ground. As they ran they covered their faces, noses and
eyes with their hands, and through blackened lips, sometimes cracked and
bleeding, they gasped, "Allemands! Allemands!"
Some of our own French-speaking officers stopped the few running men they
could make hear, and begged of them to reform their lines and go back to
the attack.
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