Bang! came a Turkish bomb at that moment, scattering the group into their shelters below the parapets.
"Ye dirty, mouldy-faced sons of dog-eatin', blue-nosed spalpeens—Oi'll bomb yis," roared Paddy, gripping a jam tin and lighting the fuse.
Bang! it went. Bang! Bang! Bang! went more.
"Some jam," said Bill, as he watched through the periscope. And then they heard moaning, shrieks, and shouts of "Allah, Allah."
"More jam," ordered Bill. And more jam they received. It wasn't sweet, and certainly unpalatable. And it didn't stick. Tins labelled "Apricot," "Marmalade," "Black Currant," and "Raspberry," went hurtling through the air, then burst in a very nasty way above the poor old Turks' trenches. This battle of jam bombs made the Turks much more respectful for a time. Indeed, one of the officers, who must have been a sportsman, flung over a note, on which was written:
"DEAR AUSTRALIANS,—We like jam—in fact, we could do with a tin of it, but not that dam—jam—jammy stuff you were putting over last night.—Yours fraternally,
"YUSSEF BEY."
"By Jove! He's a sport—let's chuck him a tin," said Claud. And over it went. The Turks scattered and waited, but there was no explosion. With a smile the Turkish officer picked up the tin. Unfastening a note tied round it, he read:
"DEAR YUSSEF,—This is the real stuff. By the way, you were at Rugby with me. Shall be sorry to kill you.—Yours, etc.,
"CLAUD DUFAIR."
Plunk! came a stone into the Australian lines; round it was fixed a note:
"DEAR CLAUD,—Many thanks—it was a god-send. Fancy you being here. I thought you would have been guarding the Marys and Mauds of London from the Zepps. Congrats! Of course, I shall be sorry to kill you.—Yours, etc.,
"YUSSEF BEY.