The whole thing is a
public scandal.
Seriously, though, it is astonishing what contempt familiarity can
breed, even in the case of high-explosive shells. This little town
lies close behind the trenches. All day long the big guns boom. By
night the rifles and machine-guns take up the tale. One is frequently
aroused from slumber, especially towards dawn, by a perfect tornado
of firing. The machine-guns make a noise like a giant tearing calico.
Periodically, too, as already stated, we are subjected to an hour's
intimidation in the shape of bombardment. Shrapnel bursts over our
heads; shells explode in the streets, especially in open spaces, or
where two important streets cross. (With modern artillery you can
shell a town quite methodically by map and compass.)
Brother Bosche's motto appears to be: "It is a fine morning. There is
nothing in the trenches doing. We abundant ammunition have. Let us a
little frightfulness into the town pump!" So he pumps.
But nobody seems to mind. Of course there is a casualty now and then.
Occasionally a hole is blown in a road, or the side of a house is
knocked in. Yet the general attitude of the population is one of
rather interested expectancy. There is always the cellar to retire to
if things get really serious. The gratings are sandbagged to that end.
At other times--well, there is always the pleasing possibility of
witnessing the sudden removal of your neighbour's landmark.
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