"Missed, be Jasus—yis couldn't hit the town of Sydney at a hundred yards. Paddy Doolan's the man for that job." He seized the rifle, but just as he was going to open the little iron door there was a rattle of bullets all over the plate.
"Down, boys, down," he shouted.
"It's a beastly Maxim," said Claud, looking up. And a Maxim it was. In ten minutes the so-called armoured plate was riddled. This was the experience with nearly all the other plates—one of the many annoying problems of war. However, the new plates were doubled and bolted. Then they were covered with sandbags and erected so as not to be too obvious on the parapet. This scheme defied the sniper and the Maxim, and, in this way, the Turks' fire was subdued. This was important. In trench warfare the enemy must be terrorised. Not a head must be allowed to bob up, not a rifle and eye seen. Snipers must be hunted to death and given such a hefty and quick dispatch as to intimidate their successors. Water parties and ration parties have to be set on the run; reinforcements spotted and scattered; officers, too, must be kept in their place—below the parapet, if not below the sod. All of this means that the enemy gets demoralised and sickened. And when he has had a month or two of this gentle treatment he is easily dealt with when the time comes for an offensive and bayonet charge.
Of course, the Turks did not let the Australasians have it entirely their own way. When sniping and rifle fire became too dangerous, they resorted to the bomb. The bomb isn't a respectable thing. It sometimes takes your head off, and frequently punctures the system in rather an ugly manner. When a bomb hits, you know it. It is something like a railway engine striking a match-box. These Turkish bomb-throwers had some idea of making a sort of Irish slew out of their opponents' bodies. They bombed and bombed and bombed. Now, this wasn't at all polite, and it was most uncomfortable, especially when sitting down to a stolen Maconochie—an appetising dish. These bombs burst the parapets, ripped up the sandbags, and knocked men's brains into other men's eyes. Most annoying! One morning a bomb just missed Bill's head.
"What the—who the—why the—— These blamed ole Turks think my head's a coconut," said Bill.
"I hope they'll never hit your head," remarked Claud.
"Why?"
"It's too full——"
"Of water," interjected Paddy.
"Yes, there would be a flood," concluded Claud, as he lit his pipe. Just then an order was sent down to pass all empty jam tins to the rear.