"Yes. Might be coming over."
"Hardly."
"Why these heavies?"
"Dunno. He's shelling along the whole line—good God," in a shout, "look at that chap there ... it, oh, my God, it's got him ... did you, did you, see THAT?" A heavy had whined into the yard just as a runner essayed a blind rush. Nothing was left. Nausea, a slight dizziness enveloped us.
"What," he asked hoarsely, "what is this place?"
"86th Brigade."
"I want the Guernseys."
"In the Catacombs. The road up on the right." He walked out on to the steps, stared intently into the night—in a flash we both sensed Death. He ran down the flight:
"Good-night." He was a death casualty that night, and we HAD BOTH KNOWN IT.
Presentiment of looming danger was pregnant, became accentuated with the increase of heavy shelling falling from three angles: from directly overhead, from the right rear flank and left rear.