There was no doubt there was a good deal of the amateur in these men. Among other atrocities they had rigged a machine gun in some bushes on top of the parapet to our right hand. The situation was murderous—for us, not the enemy. There was no cover, and to fire the gun meant crouching among the bushes, a sure target for any bullets straying this way. A sergeant was in charge of the gun, and lay on his stomach up there observing the enemy’s movements, and sending down reports every few minutes. For some reason the lieutenant in charge made no effort to keep the gun secret, but at frequent intervals ordered fifteen or twenty rounds rapid fire, so that our corner attracted a growing interest from the enemy. A conversation went on after this manner.
“Are you still there, sergeant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is anything to be seen?”
“No, sir. Nothing important. There is a good deal of digging going on in one place: the men aren’t showing; but a lot of dirt goes up.”
“Well, give ’em a burst there, it’ll keep their heads down; a short burst, not more than twenty, with traversing movement.”
A silence followed, and then bang-bang, bang-bang went the gun.
“Any results, sergeant?”
“I’m not sure, sir: I think they’ve stopped digging.”
A few minutes later.