Claud wrapped himself in his coat for a snooze. The others followed suit, little dreaming what the dawn would bring. While they slept, secure in their innocence of things, the General and Chief of Staff sat keen and anxious in their dug-outs; for the dawn was the time stated for the attack. Everything was prepared; still, they had all that mental worry which only an officer knows. They smoked and talked—and talked. While they passed these anxious hours their subordinate commanders were quietly filling up the reserve trenches with supporting troops. The gunners, too, were busy checking ranges and noting down the approximate position of the magazines and other stores as supplied by the map of Tony Brown. The doctors were also alive. They were clearing out the field hospitals preparatory to the gruesome slaughter ahead. Out at sea a flotilla of gunboats and destroyers had quietly arrived and were circling round, waiting for the coming fray. Everything had been thought of; everything was ready.
"It's getting light, sir," said the chief, looking out of his dug-out about 3.30 A.M.
"Very well; 'phone the brigadiers. Tell them to be prepared for the bombardment in accordance with our pow-wow of yesterday."
"Very good, sir." The 'phone transmitted the order and the chief sat down again.
Boom! echoed a gun in the Turkish line. A shell crashed right over the General's dug-out. Tony Brown's information was right. The battle had commenced. A sense of relief spread over the General's face. His suspense was at an end.
Boom! Boom! Boom! went the other guns. More shells, more splinters, and here and there the moan of a dying or wounded man. But this was only the preliminary business. In ten minutes every Turkish gun, from the giant howitzers to the more simple field pieces, were pounding shrapnel, common shell, and high explosives into the Australasian lines. There was no excitement; the men were used to the game. They crouched in holes or hard against the stony sides of the trenches. Still, the noise was deafening, and the gunners' aim was often good. Shells burst on the parapets and destroyed them, frequently killing or burying the men behind. Others burst above and sent their balls of death into the heads or backs of the crouching men. High explosives crashed with an unnerving boom in and around the trenches, pounding, killing, and maiming. Maxims rattled out a hail of lead, rifles squirted bullets into every corner where a living soul was likely to be found. There was no romance in this sort of business. It was butchery, blood, anguish, and death. Hell is the only word that fits such a bombardment. Those who read such things sit at home in tears and terror. Yet the men who live through them sit calm, even cool, and often in smiles.
"Bit hot," said Claud, looking at his hat, which had been pierced by a shrapnel bullet.
Bill ejaculated something unprintable and dropped a hot piece of shell he had intended to collar as a curio.
"I weesht I had a hauf o' whisky; this is a dry job," said Sandy, as he cuddled closer against the side of the trench.
"May ould Allah have mercy on yis when I get yis wid me can-opener!" muttered Paddy as he fingered his bayonet.