“Blast it, oh, blast it. Get me a line, damn you.” O’Grady, binoculars to eyes, could see the gray figures crawling through the wire; could hear rifles crackling just below him. The man on his knees tapped key frantically. “F.X. Don,” tapped the man, “F.X. Don.” More gray figures came through the wire. On the left of the wire, up a little white road with trees on each side, came another line of gray figures; flung themselves down. O’Grady could see flame from their rifles, toy smoke puffs. “F.X. Don,” tapped the man, “F.X. Don.” The gray figures by the road were on their feet, running. “F.O.O.” throbbed the plate at the man’s eardrum, “F.O.O.” “Got ’em sir,” said the man to O’Grady, “will you speak?” O’Grady grabbed the receiver, and said, speaking very slowly and distinctly: “Esses—O—Esses. Do you understand?” “Esses—O—Esses” throbbed the plate at his ear. Private Longstaffe, wrenching frantically at jammed breechbolt, heard a whirr as of homing pigeons over his head; was aware of white smoke puffs bursting among the gray figures all along the slope in front of him.... The breechbolt shot home at last, but when he lifted the rifle to his shoulder, peered through the V of the backsight, the gray figures had disappeared. PART SEVENTEEN |