—followed by a heavy thud upon the roof of his dug-out. Earth and small stones descend in a shower upon him.
"Dirty dogs!" he comments, looking at his watch. Then he puts his head out of the dug-out.
"Lie close, you men!" he cries. "There's more of this coming. Any casualties?"
The answer to the question is obscured by another burst of shrapnel, which explodes a few yards short of the parapet, and showers bullets and fragments of shell into the trench. A third and a fourth follow. Then comes a pause. A message is passed down for the stretcher-bearers. Things are growing serious. Five minutes later Bobby, having despatched his wounded to the dressing-station, proceeds with all haste to Captain Blaikie's dug-out.
"How many, Bobby?"
"Six wounded. Two of them won't last as far as the rear, I'm afraid, sir."
Captain Blaikie looks grave.
"Better ring up the Gunners, I think. Where are the shells coming from?"
"That wood on our left front, I think."
"That's P 27. Telephone orderly, there?"