"Half a mo!" mumbled the gunner, eye glued to the battery telescope. "Yes, it is—Germans—I can see the spiky helmets."
"Rot," returned the sergeant-major; "can't be!"
"Anyway, I'm off to report to the captain," said the gunner.
Bradbury was talking to the horses by one of the guns when a breathless gunner of the battery staff appeared with the telescope.
"Beg pardon, sir, but there are——"
CRASH! A percussion shell burst clean in the middle of the battery, followed the next instant by a couple more. And in the few moments' breathless pause it was realised that practically every horse and every driver was either killed outright or wounded.
"Action rear!" yelled Bradbury, who found himself in command.
Their leader's voice above the unholy din pulled them together, and the gun detachments, such as were left, leaped to the trails to get the limbers clear. But no more than three guns could they get into action.
Now a tornado of shell and machine-gun bullets from close range burst over and through the devoted remnant—Bradbury, three subalterns (Giffard, Campbell and Mundy), the sergeant-major, a sergeant, a couple of gunners, and a driver. And in action against them were ten German field-guns, and two machine-guns enfilading from the wood.
Of their three guns, they had now to abandon two.