As a rule, that observation post did not ring up the guns unless a party of Germans over half a dozen in number was seen, but presently the officer at the telescope spoke.
“I say?”
“Yes.”
“Get on to Stiggins” (the code name of the battery). “Tell them three Hun officers with blue cloaks lined with light blue silk, blucher boots and shining swords, will be at the cross-roads at H16, C45.5 in about five minutes. Tell them they are probably Prince Eitel Fritz and Little Willie. I will give the word when to let them have it.”
Through the glass could be clearly seen—it was afternoon, and the sun was in a perfect position—the nonchalant way in which those three arrogant-looking Hun officers stared about as they approached the cross-roads.
Then, in due course, the observing officer said: “Now”—and a moment later the shells passed over the observation post with a sound as of the tearing of silk, and the three “princes,” blue cloaks and swords were flying at all angles as they dashed back from the cross-roads, only to run into another shell burst. Two fell—the other made good his escape. It was never learned who they were.
Another incident. One very misty day two officers were in an observation post looking out over the huge devastation of the Loos salient. They were not in an artillery, but in an Intelligence observation post, which, however, was linked up with the guns. Suddenly the mist thinned, revealing far behind the German lines, 7,000 yards away, a number of figures engaged in harvesting.
“Ring up ‘Compunction,’” said one officer, “and tell them that sixty Huns are working on the corn at U22, A45.70.”
“By God, cancel that,” cried the other, whose eyes were still on the telescope. “There are women among them.”
They were French women, with a sprinkling of Bavarian or Prussian soldiers. The long distance observer saved lives, even behind the Hun lines, as well as took them.