“Poor Halliday’s been killed,” answered the Weasel. “Doc’s just been up to Vermelles on a push-bike.”
“They nearly got me too. Bromley’s crowd have been having a pretty rotten time.”
The casualty, first among their officers, cast a gloom over the three men. Soon, the Doctor went back to his impromptu surgery—a tiny room off the hall where his batman had set out from their wicker cases, bandages, shining instruments, bottles of disinfectants, boxes of tabloids.
“Sportsman, the doctor,” commented Stark.
The telephone on the shelf began buzzing; Peter went to it; picked up the receiver. “Seventh Don Ack . . . Adjutant fourth Southdown Brigade . . . Brigade Major wishes to speak to you, sir . . . Right . . .” A pause . . . “That you, Jameson? Look here, we want your batteries to open fire again. . . .” Followed map-references which Peter repeated. . . . “Yes. The loophole plates. But go slow with your ammunition.”
Stark glanced at the big marked map on the wall; saw that the targets were the same as those for the previous day. “Infantry held up, I suppose,” he said. “What was that about ammunition? . . . Very well, tell the batteries to fire a round a minute. H.E.,[[10]] of course. You might go down and see how they’re getting on. Tell Mr. Black I want to see him; and send in a telephonist as you pass the dug-out.”
“Now I wonder,” thought the Weasel, as he sat alone over his map, “what is going to happen. Better be prepared for the worst, I suppose.”
The little Regimental Sergeant Major came bounding in; saluted; stood to attention.
“Got your note-book, Mr. Black?”
“Yes, sir.”