“Three rounds Battery-fire. One-O seconds.” “Stop.” “Add twenty-five.” “Two rounds Battery fire, One-O seconds.” “Go on.” “At Battery fire, sweep one five minutes.”

Up and down the long line, men stood shouting, men jerked triggers, muzzles roared and recoiled, shells leapt to open breech, breech-blocks twirled home, gunners—knees astride—clung to rocking seats. And round the rocking, roaring guns, deafened men still toiled with pick and shovel at the sandbag epaulments.

Batteries were firing independently: and Stark, mackintosh spread on the parados of a crumbling trench, watched them without a word. He felt a hand on his arm; saw two fingers and a cigar pointing over his shoulder, forward and upward through the gun-flashes. “See that sausage, sir,” shouted P.J. in his ear.

The Weasel looked round at his Adjutant: the Adjutant flickered an eye towards the crowded horse-lines.

“Behind those houses,” rasped the Weasel. “Get ’em away quietly, or they’ll panic. And tell ’em to post a look-out man to watch for signals.”

“Not bad for a civilian,” thought the Weasel as he watched Peter stroll calmly to the haystack, tap Horrocks on the shoulder.

The balloon had gone down again; guns were still firing; and across the fields—veterinary officer’s white breeches at their head—filed at a walk the horses of the Headquarters Staff. Now, in and out among the tethered teams at the battery horse-lines, cigar in mouth, strode a stocky figure, whispering, “Hook in and get away quietly. Behind those houses. At a walk, please, Quartermaster Sergeant.” Like figures in a quadrille, the bays and browns and blacks of the teams, the dark green of the ammunition wagons, curved to slow life; emerged into four long lines that unrolled steadily across the dun fields to safety. But as the lines drew clear, they revealed behind them, low dark bunches in the middle distance; other horses—hundreds and hundreds of horses....

“Ich kann nicht genau sehen,” mumbled a guttural voice three and a half miles away, “aber am Dreiweg finden wir sicher etwas. Also, los damit, lieber Oberleutnant.” ...

Peter heard, above the roar of his own guns, a high shrill scream; saw a black fountain spurt from the ground three hundred yards in front. The Weasel was on his feet, hands to mouth, “Take cover,” roared the Weasel. “Take cover. All except gun-numbers into the trench.” For the diggers had stopped work, stood staring at the dropping fountain.

Rose another scream up the sky.... “Get down, you fools, get down.” Now the Weasel was half way along the flashing line.... The scream came shrieking to earth, stopped. A hundred yards in front, a few clods leapt from the ground. “Under cover.... Under cover.” ... Like rabbits to burrow men popped to earth.... But still the guns went on.

Peter, kneeling behind quivering sandbags, was conscious of a mule braying high in air, of a second’s deadly silence, of a thudding crash; felt a rush of air at his ears; saw something slice the sandbag at his side as a knife slices cheese, plunge into the turf.... Then he heard fragments pattering on the hard earth behind him; looked up; and saw, a hundred yards away, standing upright, hands in his pockets, the Weasel; and the Weasel was still shouting “Under cover, you fools, get under cover.” The gun behind which Peter had knelt, went off with a crash....

“My aunt,” he thought.

Except for the Colonel’s figure, nothing moved behind the guns. Purves and the Doctor, noses to ground, were lying flat against the haystack. Very high in air, another shell went howling on its way. Peter, following the noise with his eyes, found dark clumps of horses; was conscious noise ceased; saw a great black earth-spout shoot up among the horses; heard the double crash of shell’s alighting; saw terrified teams rear and plunge; saw little figures hurling themselves at bridles....

Another shell swished over; and another; plunged to ground in rear of him. The whole middle distance seemed a mass of stampeding beasts that hurled themselves through black fountains across the plains.

“Didn’t you hear me say get under cover, you sanguinary cigar-merchant?” rasped a voice at his ear....