It is six o'clock next evening, and peace reigns over our trench. This
is the hour at which one usually shells aeroplanes--or rather, at
which the Germans shell ours, for their own seldom venture out in
broad daylight. But this evening, although two or three are up in the
blue, buzzing inquisitively over the enemy's lines, their attendant
escort of white shrapnel puffs is entirely lacking. Far away behind
the German lines a house is burning fiercely.
"The Hun is a bit _piano_ to-night," observes Captain Blaikie,
attacking his tea.
"The Hun has been rather firmly handled this afternoon," replies
Captain Wagstaffe. "I think he has had an eye-opener. There are no
flies on our Divisional Artillery."
Bobby Little heaved a contented sigh. For two hours that afternoon he
had sat, half-deafened, while six-inch shells skimmed the parapet in
both directions, a few feet above his head. The Gunner major had been
as good as his word. Punctually at one-fifty-five "Minnie's" two
o'clock turn had been anticipated by a round of high-explosive shells
directed into her suspected place of residence. What the actual result
had been nobody knew, but Minnie had made no attempt to raise her
voice since. Thereafter the German front-line trenches had been
"plastered" from end to end, while the trenches farther back were
attended to with methodical thoroughness. The German guns had replied
vigorously, but directing only a passing fire at the trenches,
had devoted their efforts chiefly to the silencing of the British
artillery. In this enterprise they had been remarkably unsuccessful.
"Any casualties?" asked Blaikie.
"None here," replied Wagstaffe. "There may be some back in the support
trenches."
"We might telephone and inquire."
"No good at present. The wires are all cut to pieces. The signallers
are repairing them now."
"_I_ was nearly a casualty," confessed Bobby modestly.
"How?"
"That first shell of ours nearly knocked my head off! I was standing
up at the time, and it rather took me by surprise. It just cleared the
parados. In fact, it kicked a lot of gravel into the back of my neck."
"Most people get it in the neck here, sooner or later," remarked
Captain Blaikie sententiously. "Personally, I don't much mind being
killed, but I do bar being buried alive. That is why I dislike Minnie
so." He rose, and stretched himself. "Heigho! I suppose it's about
time we detailed patrols and working parties for to-night. What a
lovely sky! A truly peaceful atmosphere--what? It gives one a sort of
Sunday-evening feeling, somehow."
"May I suggest an explanation?" said Wagstaffe.
"By all means."
"It _is_ Sunday evening!"