"Where's one of the signalmen?" the Skipper roared. "There you are—are you—wave something; get on top of that hut and wave your flags." (We were standing close to a small mud hut.)
"He'll draw their fire all right," I chuckled to Trevelyan—there were a good many bullets flying past us—and when he did scramble up to the top and begin waving his semaphore flags, they left off firing at us, and paid all their attention to him, bullets whistling round him and smacking up against the side of the hut.
"A jolly good 'wheeze' that," and Trevelyan winked at me. "You must put that in your blessed drill book, eh, soldier?"
The signalman stood there with his telescope between his knees, calmly trying to attract attention, whilst the Skipper stood below and cursed him, and "Blucher" went smelling up every time a bullet splodged against the mud wall, and then ran away, thinking people were throwing stones at him. He didn't know what to make of this picnic.
"There's someone waving on top of that house," several sang out; and we saw someone "wagging" a long stick.
"'E's only got one arm, whoever 'e is," the signalman muttered, "an' 'e don't know much about Morse."
"It's Mr. Ford, sir," he sang out. "He says, 'All well so far—Mr. Ching here—gun doing damage'."
"Splendid!" we all shouted; and just then the signalman came toppling down with a bullet through his leg, and sat there holding it and looking very white.
Old Barclay was on him in a moment—terrible keen chap he was.
When we looked again, young Ford had disappeared. I expect that he had found it a pretty warm corner up there.