“Four seven hundred, sir—Four seven fifty, sir—Four eight hundred, sir.”
Sandiland, watch at wrist, firing-schedule in hand, stood at the mouth of the telephone-pit. Every five minutes he called across to his subalterns, “What are you at now?” referred their answers to the paper in his hand; ticked off the ranges.
There was no excitement at the battery; and, for the moment, no danger. Work proceeded automatically.
Right and left of the battery, in the valleys behind and even among the woods in front, other batteries were firing in the same orderly unhurried manner. The great voice of massed pieces rolled and echoed in continuous thunder to the observers in the sausage-balloons behind them, to the observers in the high-circling ’planes above. Only the makers of that thunder were deaf to it, isolated, cut off by the thudding of their own labours from all other sound. Steadfastly they worked—eye and hands, ears and mind concentrated on the leaping guns.
But Sandiland’s mind was not with his guns!
“Any news?” he called down into the telephone-pit.
“Message just coming through from Headquarters, sir”—a pause—“Have we heard from Mr. Jameson yet?”
“Tell them, No. And get on to Blenkinsop again.”
“Blenkinsop’s on, sir.” Sandiland stepped down into the pit—a square tin-roofed cave scooped from the soil; took the instrument from his telephonist. “Captain Sandiland speaking. Are they still barraging Trônes Wood?”
“Yes, sir. Firing’s very heavy. Five-nines, I think, sir.”