“Who’s going to cut the enemy wire?” To Peter, overhearing, the tired voice sounded very serious.
“Oh, that’ll be all right.” Murchison galloped off.
The right-hand gun of the Brigade shot out a tongue of flame; a sandbag dropped from its parapet. O’Grady, beyond the crest, had begun his ranging.
Appeared, on a quiet brown mare, Coolsdon, the Staff Captain. He, too, had a white map in his hand; indicated a target.
“Oh, if Murchison’s been here,” said Coolsdon; and galloped off. . . .
Now, all round the great saucer of chalk, men bent to telephone receivers. “Add 100. Five minutes more right,” shouted the men, and voices down the gun-line repeated, “Add 100. Five minutes more right.” The thing that ballooned slowly into the air behind Fosse Eight, could not hear the shouting men; but it could see, vaguely through the low mist, tiny sparks of fire in the great saucer!
§ 4
“Three rounds Battery-fire. One-O seconds.” “Stop.” “Add twenty-five.” “Two rounds Battery fire, One-O seconds.” “Go on.” “At Battery fire, sweep one five minutes.”
Up and down the long line, men stood shouting, men jerked triggers, muzzles roared and recoiled, shells leapt to open breech, breech-blocks twirled home, gunners—knees astride—clung to rocking seats. And round the rocking, roaring guns, deafened men still toiled with pick and shovel at the sandbag epaulments.
Batteries were firing independently: and Stark, mackintosh spread on the parados of a crumbling trench, watched them without a word. He felt a hand on his arm; saw two fingers and a cigar pointing over his shoulder, forward and upward through the gun-flashes. “See that sausage, sir,” shouted P.J. in his ear.