"Yes, they are shelling that farm behind the German
second-line trench. Making good shooting too, for beginners," as a
column of dust and smoke rises from behind the enemy's lines. "But
brother Bosche will be very peevish about it. We don't usually fire at
this time of the afternoon. Yes, there is the haymaking party going
home. There will be a beastly noise for the next half-hour. Pass the
word along for every man to get into his dug-out."
The warning comes none too soon. In five minutes the incensed Hun is
retaliating for the disturbance of his afternoon siesta. A hail
of bullets passes over our trench. Shrapnel bursts overhead.
High-explosive shells rain upon and around the parapet. One drops into
the trench, and explodes, with surprisingly little effect. (Bobby
Little found the head afterwards, and sent it home as a memento of his
first encounter with reality.)
Our trench makes no reply. There is no need. This outburst heralds no
grand assault. It is a mere display of "frightfulness," calculated to
cow the impressionable Briton. We sit close, and make tea. Only the
look-out men, crouching behind their periscopes and loopholes, keep
their posts. The wind is the wrong way for gas, and in any case we all
have respirators. Private M'Leary, the humorist of "A" Company, puts
his on, and pretends to drink his tea through it.
Altogether, the British soldier appears sadly unappreciative either of
"frightfulness" or practical chemistry.
Pages:
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193