“I’m afraid that’s the best we can do for tonight, sir.”
“Very well, Sergeant Major. Have the men had their rum ration?”
“Yes, sir.” He added sotto voce, “They needed it, sir.”
“Right. You’d better let ’em turn in then.”
Number four gun spat its tongue of crimson flame, subsided into silence for another five minutes. “You chaps can knock off now,” called Cresswell’s voice.
Except for the two signallers in the telephone pit and Sergeant Duncan with his two “numbers” at the duty-gun, the whole battery-personnel—officers’ servants included—had been toiling with pick and shovel and dragropes since half-past eight. Now they disappeared into the darkness. Sergeant Abernethy and his six men—two of his own sub-section, the remainder told off from the other detachments—lay down to sleep under their piece.
A figure approached Peter, said, “Should I light the candles in your dug-out, sir?”
“You’d better turn in, I think, P.J.” interrupted Sandiland; “or you won’t get any sleep at all.”
“What about telephoning H.Q., and checking the night-lines of that cannon?”
“Never you mind about H.Q., or the cannon. Just do as you’re told and turn in, there’s a good chap.”