“C gun two minutes more right! Drop five-ough! Repeat!” The battle was wearing on. I wondered how we did on the right, and if the New Zealanders held firmly to the left.
Eaves beckoned violently: a message had arrived from Divisional Artillery. I went across and watched him put it laboriously to paper. “Guns in action, three o’clock five degrees east of Battleship Hill. Engage them.” I jerked the form from him, and started again for the observing station.
There was fascination as well as risk in the scramble through the open, where Death roamed overhead with threatening voice. I reached the big dug-out, leaned over, tossed in the message, and met the abrupt signal to return. Down I went, slipping and springing from tuft to tuft, and falling on my back somewhere near the ledge. Just here a brain wave came along: I bethought me of a four days’ beard, and rising up, bolted on to my own funk-hole at the bottom of the hill. Into my kit I dived, caught up the shaving tackle, and was back again at the ledge while you could count fifty. There I lay and perspired, while the voice of Major Felix called out the new target.
“Guns in action! Aiming point right-hand edge of Battleship Hill! Line of fire five degrees five minutes right! Corrector one-five-ough—three-three hundred! Angle of sight three degrees three-five minutes elevation! One round battery fire!”
I fell to watching the bay again. The transports lay at anchor beyond range of enemy guns, and the battleships riding at their stations never ceased to send loud voices over the deep. But nearer shore a thousand craft sped to and fro. Now and now again, a monster shell rumbled out of the hills, and rent a chasm in the even sea; but still the craft came and went, nor turned their course a hair’s breadth. Truly luck followed us this day.
But while I watched a hideous burst of smoke and coal dust leaped from a mine-sweeper, and all at once she fell a-shivering. Smoke and dust drifted away, and I scanned her keenly, but could make out no harm.
Just now the good Queen Bess picked up a target—a howitzer in action on a far crest. I saw her swing at her station: I saw her move out to sea.
He was no fool, that howitzer. He crouched behind his sandbag ramparts, and boomed defiance at the foul infidel guns. Upon his stout overhead cover shells and shrapnel burst in vain.
But he had not met the good Queen Bess.