“The circumstances,” known to both the speakers, did not bear overmuch thinking of—being on a par with the “political situation” which, by a premature announcement in the English Parliament of the capture of Hill 70, was forcing them to attempt an attack both knew to be in the nature of a very forlorn hope.
The Gunner General went on detailing his plans: “I shall put Stark in command of the Left Group. He’s the only regular Colonel they’ve got.”
“Good man?” asked the other.
“Yes, sir. Very sound. I’ve known him for years: stuck pig with him in India. . . . We’re very short of ammunition for the Hows.”
“That’s nothing unusual. Allenby’s had to chuck it altogether in the Salient. What about eighteen-pounders?”
“We can just manage a two-hours’ bombardment. When do you propose attacking, sir?”
“Day after tomorrow.” The senior General glanced at his watch, saw it was past midnight. “As you were, tomorrow. Sometime in the afternoon.”
§ 2
At last, Peter Jameson slept.
All through that long afternoon of sunshine, the eighteen-pounders of the Fourth Brigade had been silent. Round the outside lip of the chalk-saucer, attack and counter attack had died in exhaustion. Only, at its extreme left edge, under the shadow of Fosse Eight, in the Hohenzollern Redoubt, kilted men fought out the light, hand to hand, with bomb and bayonet and grenade. In front of Loos, the saviour Cavalry watched the silent woods and the hill whereon death waited.