Nine-thirty, “pip emma,” on the last day of the Loos bombardment.

Outside the little house at Annequin, cigar between his lips, Peter Jameson stood watching the show. All round the eastward horizon, gun-flashes winked and blazed, lighting up the sky. Far to southward, beat the continuous drum of French seventy-fives, firing la rafale. Every half-minute, from one or other of the pits below the shadowy trees in front of him, spurted a flash of orange, followed by the bark of an 18-pounder, the dwindled hiss of flighting shell, the faint thud of its alighting. In the pits themselves, laboured tired and grimy men, sleepless for three days and four nights;—an orderly labour, unhurried: shell to open breech, breech-block clanged home, eye to dial-sight, hand to range-dial: “Set,” “Ready,” eye to watch, fingers to ear-drums, “Fire,” roar of piece discharging, rocking carriage, stink of cordite, “Repeat!”

So men laboured, unhurried but unsleeping, at Vermelles and Noyelles-Les-Vermelles, at Cuinchy and Noeux-Les-Mines, northwards and southwards. The intermittent thunder of their labours came to Peter, standing alone in the moonlight: and with it came the jingle and clank of ammunition waggons, the far crackle of an occasional machine-gun, the sound of Scotch singing from shuttered houses in the village on his left.

He turned; went into the house.

In the gloomy Mess-room, sat Stark—pile of typewritten sheets at his elbow, marked map spread out on the table among the dÉbris of dinner. Driver Nicholson crouched in the corner by the telephone.

“What’s it like outside?” asked the Weasel.

“Oh, pretty quiet, sir. The Boche don’t appear to be firing at all.”

“Any wind?”

“Not a breath. It’ll be bad for our gas.”

“Pity.” Stark bent to his map again. The telephone buzzed. “Mr. Purves, speaking from the dug-out, sir.” Peter stepped over, took up the instrument. “A battery report their No. 3 gun out of action.”

“What’s that?” asked Stark. “How did it happen?”

Peter got through to the battery, heard Lodden’s voice over the wire. “Yes. That infernal eighty-over-forty-four fuze with the new gaine. Blown about six inches off the muzzle. No. Nobody hurt. And my number two gun’s running-up very badly. Can you send Staff Sergeant Barrie down? ... As soon as he comes in. Thanks.”

Peter gave the necessary orders to Purves; rejoined his Colonel over the attack-plans.

“Follow ’em?” asked Stark.

“Yes, sir. We’ve got five Divisions in the front line and supports. Forty-seventh; fifteenth; ninth; first and seventh. They’re to break the front; open out; and let the Cavalry through. Our batteries don’t take part in anything except preliminary bombardment. After that, we stop where we are. But what I can’t understand, sir, is about the Reserves. We don’t seem to have any.”

Driver Nicholson, listening open-eared, was sent out of the room by Stark.

“Look here, P.J.”—the soldier voice dropped a tone—“between you and me, this show’s going to be another wash-out. Our Division and the Northdown ought to have been up last night. That’s why we were hustled out of England. They’re supposed to be billeted on the line Beuvry-Noeux-les-Mines. As it is, our Infantry haven’t got as far as BÉthune yet.”

“But, good God, sir—are these five Divisions going into action without any infantry Reserves at all?”

“They are, P.J. And you may well say ‘Good God.’ It isn’t our General’s fault either. I met his G.S.O.^[9] One—your pal Starcross—in his car this afternoon.”

“And when will the rest of our Division get here, sir?”

“They’re coming up by forced marches. Starcross reckons they’ll reach BÉthune at daybreak....”

“Just when we push off.”

“Exactly. And it’s six miles as the crow flies from BÉthune to our present front line....”

The two men stared first at each other; then at the map. Even to the amateur, the fault was obvious: “What will happen, sir?” he asked.

“Chaos,” said Stark succinctly. “And now you’d better be going to bed. You’ve got to be on that Fosse early tomorrow. Telephone down anything you see. I’ll be at the instrument myself. And mind you, P.J., what I’ve said tonight is between the two of us....”