A mile away among the trees, our own guns awoke, red and roaring; the flames of them cut great gashes against the sky, the voice of them drowned the far crash of shells, the crackle and sputter of rifle-fire. But shrill above the voice of the guns, Peter and Jelks heard the howling shrieking Klaxons. “Gas,” they shrieked, “Gas! Gas! Gas!”
“Better dismount, I think,” said Peter calmly. “It’s hardly likely to come as far back as this; but there’s no sense in taking risks.”
They stood, bridles over arms, watching and listening. Every now and then, Peter sniffed at the breeze. “Gas-training”—beyond the putting-on of the helmet—had not yet been invented. He felt irritatingly ignorant. How long would the stuff take to reach them? Would he be able to see it? What did it look like? Smell like? Could it kill horses?
Driver Jelks began fiddling at his satchel; extracted the clammy “P. H.” mask; shook it out; pulled it half-on, tucking up the glass eye-pieces and the rubber mouth-valve over his head. Peter saw that the man’s hands were shaking.
“Not frightened, are you?” he asked.
“I don’t mind shells, sir,”—stammered Jelks—“but this gas, it fairly puts the wind up me, sir.”
“Don’t be a damn fool, man,” said Peter gruffly. “You’re all right as long as you’ve got your helmet on.”
And then, suddenly, he saw the poison—a low gray wraith, rushing down the darkness; heard himself say, “Pull that helmet down quick”; caught a whiff as of rotten pears; closed mouth and nostrils; felt Little Willie wrench at bridle over his right arm; whipped gas-helmet out and on, stuffing the flaps of it under his collar. He found the rubber tubing with his lips; sucked on it; realized instantaneously that the valve leaked!
Now fear had its way with him. The eye-pieces blurred. To breathe meant death. . . . He must breathe. . . . His lungs would burst. . . . Blood drummed in his ears. . . .
Came another wrench at bridle-rein; with it the madness of inspiration. His right hand found the peak of the saddle, his left the cantle, swung him from ground to horse. . . . Teeth unclenched from rubber, breath surged through mouth and nostrils. . . . Now death was certain. Be damned, though, if he’d die in that acrid clammy darkness. . . .