“Fair did ’er in!” commented Corporal Plunkett, laughing weakly. “Less row now, ain’t it?”
“Some of our chaps gone up, I should say. Yes—listen!” as a succession of quick staccato bangs were knocked out directly overhead, then echoed a little farther off.
The Corporal subsided, crouching his dazed tormented head deep into his arms. And Richard, with his hands clasped round his knees, waited through the ensuing drawn-out silence for the distant inland throb which would easily mean the return of the first batch of raiders from London. He longed with eagerness for the renewed sound of gun-firing; it definitely slaked a thirst in him that had craved for such satisfaction since three years. Well—he had not been able to go to the war, but a little bit of the war had come to him.... God was—not so bad, after all! He was happy, sitting there waiting.
“There they are!” And at the same moment he felt a warm trickle down his neck. “Cheerio! wounded in action!” that bit of shrapnel which had scraped so close to his ear, must have scraped closer than he had noticed at the time.
“Yes, there they are—with a vengeance!”
... In the subsequent transformation of earth, sky, air and water into sheer noise, he faintly heard his comrade ejaculating “Hell” between intervals of violent sickness. He thrust a stealthy hand into the aperture; it was grabbed and twisted by wet chilly fingers.
“It’s all right, y’know,” said Richard gruffly. “Quite all right....”
The last Gotha was chased from the mouth of the Thames out to sea. The last mutter of guns died away.
“I daresay it’s h’over now.” Plunkett emerged cautiously into the moonlight some ten minutes later. “May as well get ’ome,” and he staggered to his feet. “The Missus’ll be wondering.”
“You think it is all over?” Richard was reluctant to believe it. That one nerve in him was still twanging irritably for the relief of gun-fire.