THE OVERTURE OF THE GUNS
All that night the men, packed close in their blankets, slept as best
they could, but continually were awakened by the roaring six-gun salvos
from the battery beside them.
One of the gunners had explained that they were likely to hear a good
deal of shooting during the night, “the notion being to bust off six
shells every now and again with the guns laid on the wire we were
shooting at in daylight. If any Boche crawls out to repair the wire in
the dark, he never knows the minute he’s going to get it in the neck
from a string of shells.”
“And how does it work?” asked the interested Arundel.
“First rate,” answered the gunner. “Them that’s up at the O.P.[1]
says that when they have looked out each morning there hasn’t been a
sign or a symptom of new wire going up, and, of course, there’s less
chance than ever of repairing in daytime. A blue-bottle fly--let alone
a Boche--couldn’t crawl out where we’re wire-cutting without getting
filled as full of holes as a second-hand sieve.”
[1] Observation Post.
The salvos kept the barnful of men awake for the first hour or two. The
intervals of firing were purposely irregular, and varied from anything
between three to fifteen minutes. The infantry, with a curious but
common indifference to the future as compared to the present, were
inclined to grumble at this noisy interruption of their slumbers, until
Arundel explained to some of them the full purpose and meaning of the
firing.
“Seein’ as that’s ’ow it is,” said Pug, “I don’t mind ’ow noisy they
are; if their bite is anything like as good as their bark, it’s all
helpin’ to keep a clear track on the road we’ve got to take presently.”
“Those gunners,” said Kentucky, “talked about this shooting match
having kept on for four days and nights continuous, but they didn’t
know, or they wouldn’t say, if it was over yet, or likely to be
finished soon.”
“The wust of this blinkin’ show,” said Billy Simson, “is that nobody
seems to know nothin’, and the same people seem to care just about the
same amount about anythin’.”
“Come off it,” said Pug; “here’s one that cares a lump. The sooner we
gets on to the straff and gets our bit done and us out again the better
I’ll be pleased. From what the Quarter-bloke says, we’re goin’ to be
kep’ on the bully and biscuit ration until we comes out of action; so
roll on with comin’ out of action, and a decent dinner of fresh meat
and potatoes and bread again.”
“There’s a tidy few,” said Billy, “that won’t be lookin’ for no beef or
bread when they comes out of action.”
“_Go_ on,” said Pug; “_that’s_ it; let’s be cheerful. We’ll all be
killed in the first charge; and the attack will be beat back; and the
Germans will break our line and be at Calais next week, and bombarding
London the week after. Go on; see if you can think up some more
cheerfuls.”
“Pug is kind of right,” said Kentucky; “but at the same time so is
Billy. It’s a fair bet that some of us four will stop one. If that
should be my luck, I’d like one of you,” he glanced at Arundel as he
spoke, “to write a line to my folks in old Kentucky, just easing them
down and saying I went out quite easy and cheerful.”
Pug snorted disdainfully. “Seems to me,” he said, “the bloke that
expec’s it is fair askin’ for it. I’m not askin’ nobody to write off no
last dyin’ speeches for me, even if I ’ad anybody to say ’em to, which
I ’aven’t.”
“Anyhow, Kentucky,” said Arundel, “I’ll write down your address, if you
will take my people’s. What about you, Billy?”
Billy shuffled a little uneasily. “There’s a girl,” he said, “one girl
partikler, that might like to ’ear, and there’s maybe two or three
others that I’d like to tell about it. You’ll know the sort of thing to
say. I’ll give you the names, and you might tell ’em”--he hesitated a
moment--“I know, ‘the last word he spoke was Rose--or Gladys, or Mary,’
sendin’ the Rose one to Rose, and so on, of course.”
Arundel grinned, and Pug guffawed openly. “What a lark,” he laughed,
“if Larry mixes ’em up and tells Rose the last word you says was
‘Gladys,’ and tells Gladys that you faded away murmurin’ ‘Good-by,
Rose.’”
“I don’t see anythin’ to laugh at,” said Billy huffily. “Rose is the
partikler one, so you might put in a bit extra in hers, but it will
please the others a whole heap. They don’t know each other, so they
will never know I sent the other messages, and I’ll bet that each of
’em will cart that letter round to show it to all her pals, and they’ll
cry their eyes out, and have a real enjoyable time over it.”
Arundel laughed now. “Queer notions your girls have of enjoyment,
Billy,” he said.
“I know ’em,” insisted Billy; “and I’m right about it. I knew a girl
once that was goin’ to be married to a chum o’ mine, and he ups and
dies, and the girl ’ad to take the tru-sox back to the emporium and
swop it for mournin’; and the amount of fussin’ and cryin’-over that
girl got was somethin’ amazin’, and I bet she wouldn’t have missed it
for half a dozen ’usbands; and, besides, she got another ’usband easy
enough about two months after.” He concluded triumphantly, and looked
round as if challenging contradiction.
Outside, the battery crashed again, and the crazy building shook about
them to the sound. A curious silence followed the salvo, because by
some chance the ranked batteries, strung out to either side of them,
had chosen the same interval between their firing. Most of the men
in the barn had by this time sunk to sleep, but at the silence they
stirred uneasily, and many of them woke and raised themselves on their
elbows, or sat up to inquire sleepily “What was wrong now?” or “What
was the matter?” With the adaptability under which men live in the fire
zone, and without which, in fact, they could hardly live and keep their
senses, they had in the space of an hour or two become so accustomed
to the noise of the cannonade that its cessation had more power to
wake them than its noisiest outbursts; and when, after the silence had
lasted a few brief minutes, the batteries began to speak again, they
turned over or lay down and slid off into heedless sleep.
Somewhere about midnight there was another awakening, and this time
from a different cause--a difference that is only in the note and
nature of the constant clamor of fire. Throughout the night the
guns had practically the say to themselves, bombs and rifles and
machine guns alike being beaten down into silence; but at midnight
something--some alarm, real or fancied--woke the rifles to a burst of
frenzied activity. The first few stuttering reports swelled quickly
to a long drum-like roll. The machine guns caught up the chorus, and
rang through it in racketing and clattering bursts of fire. The noise
grew with the minutes, and spread and spread, until it seemed that the
whole lines were engaged for miles in a desperate conflict.
Arundel, awakened by the clamor, sat up. “Is anybody awake?” he asked
in low tones, and instantly a dozen voices around him answered.
“Is it the attack, do you suppose?” asked one, and a mild argument
arose on the question, some declaring that they--the Stonewalls--would
not be left to sleep there in quietness if our line were commencing
the push; others maintaining that secrecy was necessary as to the hour
planned, because otherwise the Boches would be sure to know it, and be
ready for the attack.
“Maybe,” some one ventured the opinion, “it’s them that’s attacking
us.” But this wild theorist was promptly laughed out of court, it being
the settled conviction apparently of his fellows that the Boche would
not dare to attack when he knew from the long bombardment that our
lines must be heavily held.
As the argument proceeded, Arundel felt a touch on his elbow, heard the
soft, drawling voice of Kentucky at his ear.
“I’m going to take a little pasear outside, and just see and hear
anything I can of the proceedings.”
“Right,” said Arundel promptly. “I’m with you; I’m not a bit sleepy,
and we might find out something of what it all means.”
The two slipped on their boots, moved quietly to the door, and stepped
outside.
They walked round the end of the barn to where they could obtain a view
clear of the building and out towards the front, and stood there some
minutes in silence, watching and listening. A gentle rise in the ground
and the low crest of a hill hid the trenches on both sides from their
view, and along this crest line showed a constant quivering, pulsing
flame of pale yellow light, clear and vivid along its lower edge, and
showing up in hard, black silhouette every detail of the skyline, every
broken tree stump, every ragged fragment of a building’s wall, every
bush and heap of earth. Above the crest the light faded and vignetted
off softly into the darkness of the night, a darkness that every now
and then was wiped out to the height of half the sky by a blinding
flash of light, that winked and vanished and winked again and again,
as the guns on both sides blazed and flung their shells unseeing but
unerring to their mark.
Larry and Kentucky heard a call in the battery near them, the quick
rush of running feet, a succession of sharp, shouted orders. The next
instant, with a crash that made them jump, the six guns of the battery
spoke with one single and instantaneous voice. In the momentary gush
of flame from the muzzles, and of yellow light, that blotted out all
other lights, the two men saw in one quick glimpse the hedge, the leafy
screens above the guns, the guns themselves, and the gunners grouped
about them. Out to their right, a moment after the darkness had flashed
down again over the battery, a neighboring group of guns gave tongue in
a rapid succession of evenly spaced reports. This other battery itself
was hidden from the two watchers, but because of its nearness, the
flashes from it also flung a blinding radiance upward into the night,
revealing the outlines of every roof and building, hedge and tree, that
stood against the sky.
Their own battery, in answer to a hoarse bellowing from the megaphone
of “Section Fire--5 seconds,” commenced to pound out a stream of shells
from gun after gun. Away to right and left of them the other batteries
woke and added their din to the infernal chorus. The shells from other
and farther back batteries were rushing and screaming overhead, and
dying away in thin wailings and whistlings in the distance.
Another and different note struck in, rising this time from a shrill
scream to a louder and louder and more savage roar, and ending with an
earth shaking crash and the shriek of flying splinters. A shell had
burst a bare hundred yards from where the two stood, hurling some of
its fragments over and past them to rap with savage emphasis on the
stone and brick of the farm building.
Larry and Kentucky ducked hastily, and ran crouching to the corner
of their barn, as another shrill whistle and rush warned them of the
approaching shell. This time it burst farther off, and although the two
waited a full fifteen minutes, no other shell came near, though along
the crest of the sky-line they could see quick flashing burst after
burst and thick, billowing clouds of smoke rising and drifting blackly
against the background of light beyond the slope.
The tornado of shell fire beat the rifles down again to silence after
some minutes. The rolling rifle fire and clatter of machine guns died
away gradually, to no more than an occasional splutter, and then to
single shots. After that the artillery slowed down to a normal rate
of fire, a steady succession of bangs and thuds and rumblings, that,
after the roaring tempest of noise of the past few minutes, were no
more than comparative quiet.
“I’m glad we came out,” said Larry; “it was quite a decent little show
for a bit.”
Kentucky peered at him curiously. “Did it strike you,” he said, “the
number of guns there were loosing off in that little show, and that
most of those the other side are going to be doing their darnedest to
spoil _our_ little show, when it comes the time for us to be over the
parapet?”
“I suppose that’s so,” admitted Larry; “but then, you see, our guns
will be doing the same by them, so the game ought to be even so far as
that goes.”
“The game!” repeated Kentucky reflectively. “I notice quite a few of
you boys talk of it as ‘a game,’ or ‘the game’; I wonder why?”
“I don’t know,” said Larry, “except that--oh, well--just because it is
a game, a beastly enough one, I’ll admit, but still a game that the
best side is going to win.”
“The best side----” said Kentucky, “meaning, I suppose, you--us?”
“Why, of course,” said Larry, with utter and unquestioning confidence.