But there is to be little peace this afternoon. About half-past three,
Bobby Little, immersed in pleasant dreams--dreams of cool shades and
dainty companionship--is brought suddenly to the surface of things
by--
"Whoo-oo-_oo_-oo-UMP!"
--followed by a heavy thud upon the roof of his dug-out. Earth and
small stones descend in a shower upon him.
"Dirty dogs!" he comments, looking at his watch. Then he puts his head
out of the dug-out.
"Lie close, you men!" he cries. "There's more of this coming. Any
casualties?"
The answer to the question is obscured by another burst of shrapnel,
which explodes a few yards short of the parapet, and showers bullets
and fragments of shell into the trench. A third and a fourth
follow. Then comes a pause. A message is passed down for the
stretcher-bearers. Things are growing serious. Five minutes later
Bobby, having despatched his wounded to the dressing-station, proceeds
with all haste to Captain Blaikie's dug-out.
"How many, Bobby?"
"Six wounded. Two of them won't last as far as the rear, I'm afraid,
sir."
Captain Blaikie looks grave.
"Better ring up the Gunners, I think. Where are the shells coming
from?"
"That wood on our left front, I think."
"That's P 27. Telephone orderly, there?"
A figure appears in the doorway.
"Yes, sirr."
"Ring up Major Cavanagh, and say that H 21 is being shelled from P 27.
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