“Good morning, sir,” Cannister would answer. And then they saluted one another, and Cannister would come away from the big periscope tied against the parapet, leaving the sergeant-major or somebody else to watch in his place. And the colonel and he would sit side by side on the hot earth and exchange latest news. As a start the colonel’s cigarette case came into sight. He would open it and eye bitterly the weekly dole of Woodbines. “Have one?” he would say, holding open the case. “I’m getting some real cigarettes this week, thank God!” And he would take one himself and light it, and stare at the opposite wall with his keen eyes. “Anything doing this morning, Cannister?”
“Nothing at all. I put a round into ‘C’ half an hour ago, that’s all.” Cannister never could resist “C.”
“Be careful, Cannister, we can’t afford to throw away a round. We’re cut down to five rounds this morning. Five rounds a day! Good God! And this is supposed to be a war!”
“Short of ammunition again?” came from Cannister.
“Yes, and after all the talk. The old man rang me up this morning, and said five was our limit. He had done all he could, but it was no use. They’re saving up for something. We’re going to have a real battle in a day or two. Think of it, Cannister, a real battle, with noise and smoke and two or three extra rounds to fire off. It will be quite like a story book. It will be a column in the Argus for us. Think of it, Cannister. Think of it.”
Generally Cannister thought pretty hopelessly of it. He would cross his legs and smile and say nothing. But the colonel could say enough for two.
“What do they bring us here for,” he would begin again impatiently, “if we mustn’t fight? One might be in Melbourne now, where one could get a drink and a decent cigarette. How much ammunition has come with the new howitzers, do you think? Fifty rounds! They’re limited to a round a day or something! Good God! Why don’t we shoot off all we’ve got, and then pack up the guns and send them home, and go to Hell like gentlemen!”
Cannister would answer nothing.
“The brigadier has started fussing again. I don’t know what he expects us to do. He is on again about Mortar Ridge gun. I’ve told him a dozen times it’s a New Zealand target. God knows what the New Zealanders are doing! They never open their mouths, or if they do, they shut up again at the first return shell.”
So the talk went forward until it was time to move on. Then the colonel took a final look round through his periscope. “I’m going to C Battery and then to A. Ring me up if you want me.” Colonel and major saluted. We marched off through the trenches then, making good pace along less crowded bits; but often pulling up to look at that or this Turkish work from this or that position, or stopping to gather latest news or only to pass the time of day.