The good Queen Bess moved out to sea, and there the good Queen Bess lay to: with care she read her angles, with cunning she laid her guns. She watched, she quivered—and with a bellow of rage she hurled a two-thousand-pound shell. She missed the howitzer and struck the crest below; and away went the crest, and away went the howitzer.
Somewhere else, drawn by ten horses, an enemy field gun trotted into the open. There he unlimbered, and the team turned for cover. But in the bay a British boat was watching, and forth leaped two flames. There was a whirlwind where the gun had been. The whirlwind climbed towards the sky. But there was no gun; there were no horses; there were no men. And many souls were speeding up to Allah.
And—thus runs the legend—where the fight raged thickest this day, the good Queen Bess emptied a round from a fifteen-inch gun, whose shrapnel spreads a mile, and wiped from earth two companies of infantry. “Allah! Allah! Thy courtyards will be filled this night!”
“All guns three degrees more right! Shorten corrector six! Drop one-five-ough! Repeat!”
I began to consider my shaving. Every trace of shade had gone—as far as I was concerned, that is to say. I sat leaning forward on a bare ledge, and the sun blazed in my face. “So be it,” I muttered and swore, and spread out the shaving tackle. Into a pannikin went a few drops of water, meaning a drink lost; and picking up the soap from the sand, I rubbed it over my face. I was hot, tired, thirsty, and sticky with perspiration. A fur had grown over the roof of my mouth, for I was unwashed, and my clothes had not been off for half a week. And I thought—“Damn this! Is this life for the next two years, with maybe a bullet as final bonus? Damn this!” said I.
I looked down on the highway of the beach, where lines of wounded moved towards the boats; where under the cliffs doctors probed red wounds, and carved at arms and legs; where Indians urged mules; where sailors toiled at guns and waggons, and midget midshipmen or naval cadets, or whatever they were, ran round with mighty revolvers strapped at their hips; where the wireless man sent out his buzz—buzz—buzz; where cursing Army Service men hauled in new barges of provisions; where Greeks screamed at donkeys, and kept a wide eye on shelter; where sappers wielded picks; where officers of many ranks dodged from point to point, and waved hands and flourished canes; where men pumped water into tanks from barges. And I looked out at sea where the battleships rocked out flame; where destroyers sped up and down; where men toiled at oars; where boats emptied reinforcements on to shore; where pinnaces hooted; where loaded barges swung at anchor. I looked and I said: “Gunner Lake, not yet is the hour for complaint.”
Eaves woke me up. He waved a message form. I took it without a word, and started up to the observing station. The soap was on my face, and was a crust by the time I was back again. However, I made a second start at shaving when I found breath. To be honest, I was shy of the business. The ground shivered continually under the cannonade, and I pictured a hand slipping and a gallant gunner going to his doom. At last, with tender care, I engaged an upper jaw. I left a nick about half-way down, and three others at the point of the chin, and from there passed in a passage of blood to the farther side. It cost me many an oath, but the victory was mine.
I was putting things away with lighter heart, when my eye fell on the trawler I had seen shelled: she was going down by the stern. Already the water lapped her gunwales, and crept on to the deck. I watched entranced.
She was sinking very slowly—so slowly that the minutes made no difference—still when I looked away and looked again, the ocean had crept higher up her sides. It was a noble end for an ancient fishing tub. At intervals high-bursting shrapnel raked her from bows to stern; and the guns kept up a thunder that would follow her below the waves. And as I watched—ye gods!—the crew put off in an open boat, and pulled with the heart of a Yarra eight through a sea knocked up with bullets. Methought in days to come, in some village pothouse—when the mellow ale had done its work—methought of certain hoary seamen who would swell their chests and relate to youth agape the epic of stout times departed.
Up I scrambled with another message, and down I came again. Major Felix and his section commander were shouting to one another.