“This was the first-born,” the subaltern explained, “the first thing we could lay our hands on when the close quarters’ trench warfare began.”
It was as out of date as grandfather’s smooth-bore, the tin-pot bomb that both sides used early in the winter. A wick was attached to the high explosive, wrapped in cloth and stuck in an ordinary army jam can.
“Quite home-made, as you see, sir,” remarked the sergeant. “Used to fix them up ourselves in the trenches in odd hours—saved burying the refuse jam tins according to medical corps directions—and you threw them at the Boches. Had to use a match to light it. Very old-fashioned, sir. I wonder if that old fuse has got damp. No, it’s going all right”—and he threw the jam pot, which made a good explosion. Later, when he began hammering the end of another, he looked up in mild surprise at the dignified back-stepping of the spectators.
“Is that fuse out?” some one asked.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” he replied. “It’s safer. But here is the best; we’re discarding the others,” he went on, as he picked up a bomb.
It was a pleasure to throw this crowning achievement of experiments. It fitted your hand nicely; it threw easily; it did the business; it was fool-proof against a man in love or a war-poet.
“We saw as soon as this style came out,” said the sergeant, “that it was bound to be popular. Everybody asks for it—except the Boches, sir.”