'"This," says the Left'nant, "is goin' to be highly interestin', not to say excitin', presently. I figure that's either a four-point-two or a five-point-nine-inch high-explosive Hun. An' there's another o' the dose from the same bottle, an' about a hundred yards this way along the road. I dunno how their high-explosive will mix wi' ours, but if they get one direct hit on a wagon we'll know all about it pretty quick. A Brock's Crystal Palace firework show won't be in it wi' the ensooin' performance. An' that remark o' yours, bombardier, about a packet o' crackers recurs to my min' wi' most disquietin' persistency. 'An' still they come,' as the poet remarks."
'They was comin' too, an' no fatal error. No hurry about 'em, but a most alarmin' regularity. They was all pitchin' plumb on that road, an' each one about fifty to a hundred yards nearer our procession, an' us walkin' straight into the shower too. The swoosh-bang o' each one kep' gettin' louder an' louder, an' not a single one was missin' the road. I tell you, I could feel the flesh creepin' on my bones an' a feelin' in the pit o' my stomach like I'd swallowed a tuppenny ice-cream whole. There was no way o' dodgin', remember. We'd a ditch lippin' full o' water along both sides o' the road an' we knew without lookin'—though the Left'nant did 'ave one squint—that they was the usual brand o' ditch hereabouts, anythin' down to six foot deep an' sides cut down as straight as a cellar wall. It was no use trottin' 'cos we might just be hurryin' up to be in time to arrive on the right spot to meet one. An' it was no use haltin' for exactly the same reason. The Left'nant reins back beside the leadin' team, an' believe me there wasn't one pair o' eyes in all that outfit that wasn't glued on 'im nor a pair o' ears that wasn't waitin' anxious for some order to come, an' I'm includin' my own eyes an' ears in the catalogue. There was nothin' to be done an' nothin' to be said, an' we all knew it, but at the same time we was ready to jump to any order the Left'nant passed out. The shells was droppin' at about ten to fifteen seconds' interval, an' we could see it was goin' to be a matter o' blind luck whether one pitched short or over or fair a-top o' us. They were closer spaced, too, as they come nearer, an' I reckon there wasn't more'n fifty or sixty yards atween the last two or three bursts. An' we was still walkin' on, every man wi' his reins short an' feelin' 'is 'orse's mouth, an' his knees grippin' the saddle hard.
'"Bang!" one hits the road about one-fifty to two hundred yards short an' we heard chips o' it whizz an' hum past us. The Left'nant looks, round. "When I say 'trot' you'll trot," he shouts, "an' no man is to stop or slow up to pick up anyone hit."
'Next second, "Crash!" comes another about a hundred yards off, an' before the lumps of it sung past, "Ter-r-rot!" yells the Left'nant. Now some people might call the en-sooin' movement a trot, an' some might call it a warm canter an' first cousin to a gallop. We sees the game in a wink—to get past the spot the next crump was due to arrive on afore it did arrive. We did it too—handsome an' wi' some to spare, though when I heard the roarin' swoosh of it comin' down I thought we was for it an' a direck hit was due. But it went well over an' none of the splinters touched.
'"Steady there, steady," shouts the Left'nant "but keep goin'. They'll repeat the series if they've any sense." We could hear the blighters crumpin' away back down the road behind us, an' believe me we kep' goin' all right. But the Boshe didn't repeat the series; he went on a new game an' just afore we came to the end o' the straight stretch four crumps pitched down astride the road ahead of us about two hundred yards. One hit the edge o' the road an' the others in the fields on both sides an' one of these was a dud an' didn't burst. But we knew that the fellers that did go off would make a highly unhealthy circle around an' the prospect o' being there or thereabouts when the next boo-kay landed wasn't none too allurin'. The Left'nant yells to come on, an' we came, oh, take it from me, we came a-humpin'. There was some fancy driving past them crump holes in the road, but we might have been at Olympia the way them drivers shaved past at the canter. We was just past the last spot the four landed when I heard the whistle o' another bunch comin' an' my hair near lifted my cap off. Them wagons o' ours isn't built for any speed records but I fancy they covered more ground in the next few seconds than ever they've done before. But goin' our best, there was no hope o' clearin' the blast o' the explosions if they explosioned on the same target, an' we all made ourselves as small as we could on our horses' backs an' felt we was as big as a barn all the time the rush was gettin' louder an' louder. Then thud-thud-thud an' crash! three of 'em dropped blind an' only the one exploded; an' it bein' in the ditch didn't do any harm beyond sendin' up a spout o' water about a mile high. Three duds out o' four—if that wasn't a miracle I want to know. But we wasn't countin' too much on it bein' miracle day an' we kept the wheels goin' round with the whistle over-'ead an' the crashes behind to discourage any loiterin' to gather flowers by the way.
'An' when we was well past an' slowed down again I heard the Left'nant draw a deep breath an' say soft-like ". . . a packet o' Chinese crackers."
'But 'e said something stronger that same night. He'd just crawled back to the Column wi' his empty wagons leavin' me as orderly at the Battery, an' me havin' a pressin' message to take back for more shells I trotted out an' got back soon after he did. I took my message to the old farm where the officers was billeted an' the mess-man takes my note in. I got a glimpse o' the Left'nant wi' his jacket an' boots off an' his breeches followin' suit. "I'd a rotten day," he was sayin', "but one good point about this Am. Col. job—an' the only one I see—is that you get the night in bed wi' your breeches off."
'But if you'd only 'eard 'im when he found he was for the road again at once an' would spend 'is night in the rain an' dark instead of in bed—well, I couldn't repeat 'is language, not 'aving the talent to 'is extent.
''E was transferred to a battery soon after an' I 'eard that when he got the orders all 'e 'ad to say was, "Thank 'Eaven. I'll mebbe get shelled oftener in a battery, but at least I'll 'ave the satisfaction o' shellin' back—an' I may 'ave a funk-hole handy to duck in when it's extry hot, instead o' ridin' on the road an' expectin' to go off like a packet 'o crackers."
'Mebbe he was right,' concluded the Bombardier reflectively. 'But I s'pose it's entirely a matter o' taste, an' how a man likes bein' killed off.'