I raise my eyes to the banner, its red darkened by rain. Instead of flapping to the wind, the banner falls limp, heavy, trapped by the rain. On our right, a small gully winds up, trickling water down to cross our path. Surely our scouts have inspected it. Thinking about it, I become aware that I have not seen a scout the whole day.<br/><br/>I address a comment to the bearer and to his small circle. "Who would relinquish Asia, or Africa, or Italy, to repair to Germany, a region hideous and rude, under a rigorous climate, dismal to behold or to manure unless the same were his native country?" I do not expect my comrades to answer; they nod gravely, sharing my same thoughts. No one would, no one. Then a new sound hit my ears - the flight of a javelin.<br/><br/>The javelin rebounds from the banner with a splat. The banner vibrates, showering us in water. I know now many of us without turning my head; I look up the gully, where shapes are starting to run, and I mount my horse at the same time, setting my small round shield between us and them, waiting for the shower of javelins that is bound to come. How many of them, I think waiting for the flight of the arrows, cursing our ineffective formation, a narrow line. Weak. Exposed.