“Naturally. They lift in ten minutes.”
Still it went on below. Bark of eighteen pounder. Sharp double crack of four-point-seven. Screech and clang of French heavies. Deep boom of Granny far away in rear. Peter swept the sky with his glasses; saw the pit-head tottering above the smoke. Why didn’t they knock it out? Short! Short again! . . . He looked down towards the trenches. The white wave had turned gray. . . .
Sombrely the dawn increased. In another minute, the infantry would go over.
He fixed his glasses on the gray wave; saw it recede; saw line after line of tiny black figures, ant-like, swarm out of the ground; vanish into the grayness.
“Tell the Colonel. Infantry gone over.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Below, noise lessened. He peered into the smoke-pall. Further it rolled; and further. In it, nothing moved. Out of it, emerged house-tops. And suddenly he saw the black specks again, little bunches of them. Peter studied his map; took out his protractor.
“Call up the Colonel. Is that you, sir? Infantry retiring from the direction of City Saint Élie.”
“Are you quite certain? We’ve had a rumour that City Saint Élie’s fallen.”
“Quite certain, sir. True bearing from here is 100 degrees.”