“To the common all things are common. You tell the owner of the Château that when he finds out.”
Dormer was going to say “He won’t find out!” but refrained. He disliked arguing. This seemed a particularly bad argument. Also, at that moment, a Lewis gun began, just below. Then another. He went to the garden wall, and peered out. Nothing visible, as usual. He thought of all the battle pictures he had ever seen. The prancing horses, the gay uniforms, the engrossing action of figures that pointed muzzle or bayonet at each other, that wielded sword or lance. Here he was, an incident in one of the biggest battles in the world. All he could see was neglected arable, smashed buildings, a broken bridge and a blocked by-road, all shrouded in steamy vapour. He made out that it was the Lewis opposite the end of the bridge that was firing. He crawled along the gully that had been dug from the Château gate to the roadway, and so to the emplacement by the step-off of the bridge. The Corporal in charge of the section turned to him.
“Got ’im, sir!”
“What is it?”
“Bosche in the ditch, under them bushes!”
Dormer waited a moment, but nothing happened. He crawled back, and sent his Sergeant round to see that every one was under cover. Back in the cellar he found Kavanagh, and told him.
“I know. Once more into the breach!”
“It’s not poetry, Kavanagh. This is the start. Once they find we’re stopping them here, they’ll shift us, you may bet!”
“I shouldn’t wonder. My lot are trying to get into touch with Brigade. They’re running a line back behind the wood. There’s no one on our left, as far as can be found.”
“Must be some one.”