'You can 'ave faith in your bombs now. It's not like them there Gallipoli days, when we 'ad to fire jam-tin bombs made on the premises. They was filled with Turkish bullets and all sorts of things, but they couldn't be relied on to do the same thing every time. Did you ever 'ear of Lieutenant Forshaw, V.C., down Cape Hellis way? He hurled jam-tin bombs for forty-two hours at Johnny Turk. He 'ad to light them with his cigarette.
'Not been used to smoking cigarettes, 'im 'aving been brought up as a schoolmaster, the smoking did 'im a lot of 'arm, for which reason the King made 'im a V.C. Lucky fellow, I call 'im. Many's the time I've been short of a fag.'
At once quite a number of the sergeant's pupils present fags, and having made a selection and put a few in his pocket for future use, the sergeant proceeds:
'There's another man I want to tell you about—Captain Shout, V.C., of the 1st Battalion. 'E was throwing bombs at such close range at the Turks that 'e had to have three lit at once for 'im, and 'e fired them just so as they would explode among the enemy. 'E kept this up a long time, and 'eld the enemy up, but one burst too near 'im, and after some time, he died of 'is wounds. A great loss to the A.I.F., believe me. You needn't worry about such-like 'appenings now; only one in two thousand of our Mills' grenade goes wrong, and with the odd one you've got your sporting chance.
'Now, what about bombs that land close to you, sometimes thrown by the enemy, and sometimes by accident, our own, when a man 'its the side of the trench? Don't be too scared. Even then bombs is 'armless properly treated. Get behind a traverse if there is one. If not, then you render the live bomb 'armless. Gather round. I'll show you.'
Sitting on a chair, he took a bomb, and, after counting three, threw it on the ground, not a great way off. The men scatter for all they are worth; but the sergeant, having thrown an overcoat over the bomb, calmly resumes his seat. Crash! goes the bomb at the fifth second. The coat rises with the bomb, the fragments drop harmlessly around, and the coat is not much worse.
'Now then, let that learn you to throw sand-bags, blankets, your own overcoat or some such thing over a bomb, and ten to one no 'arm will follow.
'Did you ever hear of Mulga Bill at Quinn's Post? A bomb dropped in the trench amongst them, and 'e promptly put a sand-bag from the parapet on top of it. To make sure, 'e sat on top of the sand-bag. When it exploded 'e went up with the bag a little way. 'E came down all right and none the worse. But 'e was narked--annoyed, to find his chums laughing at 'im. "What are yer laughing at?" 'e said. "I did that to save you fellows, but I'll never do it again."
'That's where Mulga Bill was wrong. He done right, except sitting on top of it. That was an extra act—a sort of curtain-raiser at the wrong end of the play.
'Let that learn you not to put 'ard substances on a live bomb. It don't take kindly to pressure. I'll show you. Gather round.'