XXI
THE BATTLE OF THE SLAG-HEAPS
"Half-past two, and a cold morning, sir."
Thus Bobby Little's servant, rousing his employer from uneasy slumber
under the open sky, in a newly-constructed trench running parallel to
and in rear of the permanent trench line.
Bobby sat up, and peering at his luminous wrist-watch, morosely
acquiesced in his menial's gruesome statement. But he cheered up at
the next intimation.
"Breakfast is ready, sir."
Tea and bacon are always tea and bacon, even in the gross darkness and
mental tension which precede a Big Push. Presently various humped
figures in greatcoats, having gathered in the open ditch which did duty
for Officers' Mess, broke into spasmodic conversation--conversation
rendered even more spasmodic by the almost ceaseless roar of guns. There
were guns all round us--rank upon rank: to judge by the noise, you would
have said tier upon tier as well. Half a mile ahead, upon the face of a
gentle slope, a sequence of flames would spout from the ground, and a
storm of shells go whistling on their way. No sooner had this happened
than there would come a shattering roar from the ground beneath our
feet, and a heavy battery, concealed in a hedge fifty yards to our
front, would launch its contribution. Farther back lay heavier batteries
still, and beyond that batteries so powerful and so distant that one
heard the shell pass before the report arrived.
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