“Pity.” Stark bent to his map again. The telephone buzzed. “Mr. Purves, speaking from the dug-out, sir.” Peter stepped over, took up the instrument. “A battery report their No. 3 gun out of action.”
“What’s that?” asked Stark. “How did it happen?”
Peter got through to the battery, heard Lodden’s voice over the wire. “Yes. That infernal eighty-over-forty-four fuze with the new gaine. Blown about six inches off the muzzle. No. Nobody hurt. And my number two gun’s running-up very badly. Can you send Staff Sergeant Barrie down? . . . As soon as he comes in. Thanks.”
Peter gave the necessary orders to Purves; rejoined his Colonel over the attack-plans.
“Follow ’em?” asked Stark.
“Yes, sir. We’ve got five Divisions in the front line and supports. Forty-seventh; fifteenth; ninth; first and seventh. They’re to break the front; open out; and let the Cavalry through. Our batteries don’t take part in anything except preliminary bombardment. After that, we stop where we are. But what I can’t understand, sir, is about the Reserves. We don’t seem to have any.”
Driver Nicholson, listening open-eared, was sent out of the room by Stark.
“Look here, P.J.”—the soldier voice dropped a tone—“between you and me, this show’s going to be another wash-out. Our Division and the Northdown ought to have been up last night. That’s why we were hustled out of England. They’re supposed to be billeted on the line Beuvry-Noeux-les-Mines. As it is, our Infantry haven’t got as far as Béthune yet.”
“But, good God, sir—are these five Divisions going into action without any infantry Reserves at all?”
“They are, P.J. And you may well say ‘Good God.’ It isn’t our General’s fault either. I met his G.S.O.[[9]] One—your pal Starcross—in his car this afternoon.”