The wind has risen with the coming storm, and, above, the white
clouds begin to chase each other across the blue sky. Out in the
open and on the hilltops the trees are stricken by gusts of wind
which rob the hawthorns of the last of their bloom. In the sheltered
valleys there is peace and quiet, and under the lee of the hill the
sultriness of the whole morning seems to have been concentrated.
The artillery brigade has now been waiting some time in that hollow
lane between the high banks covered with wildflowers. Long enough to
breathe the panting gun-teams, and for some of the gunners to
dismount and pluck dog-roses, which they have stuck in their hats.
The still air in this little heat-trap, heavy with the smell of
horses and the overpowering scent of May-blossom strewn on the
ground, combined with the drowsy buzzing of the bumblebees--the
gentle murmur of a hot summer's day--has a somnolent effect on all
except the animals, as they stand there zigzagged across the lane,
the guns and limbers slewed to ease the strain. They present a
succession of shiny quivering skins, and tails switching in a vain
endeavour to drive off the hovering swarms of flies who divided their
attention between the backs of the men and the horses. Though there
is no conversation, for the men--here and there chewing a biscuit or
taking a sparing drink from their water-bottles--are all tired, yet
there is a general air of pleasurable expectancy, for the nature of
their present errand is now known to all. It is their first
experience of active service, and the event now awaited is to be
their baptism of fire. In the minds of the more serious, a slight
though vague feeling of apprehension--running like the coloured
thread through the lay of a rope--adds zest to their suppressed
excitement, for many and wonderful have been the yarns going the
round of the barrack-rooms as to the powers of the enemy's
quick-firing artillery. Here a more phlegmatic man has lit his pipe
and wastefully thrown the match away, to burn to the end among the
nettles on the bank--a thing which alone is sufficient to show that
these are the early days of operations.
How the sun's rays pour down between the trees! How mercilessly they
betray, even through the cloud of dust still hanging in the air, a
hint of the more unpleasant side of war! The weary and lathered
horses, the red and strained faces of the men, their peeled noses,
the little runnels made in the grime on their cheeks by the
perspiration as it streams down, the purple sweat-patches in the
greenish-yellow uniform. Now and again, as if maliciously to
accentuate the contrast between its dainty self and the crowd of men
and animals sweating below, a pale butterfly flits aimlessly in and
out of the shadows--sometimes nearly, but never quite, settling on a
horse or gun.
The windings of the lane only permit a view of some hundred yards of
its length at one time; but even this short distance offers an
impressive sight. It is apparent, in spite of the dust and dirt,
that the greater number of these men--some still on their horses,
some standing, and some stretched out on the shady side of the
road--are seasoned and in the prime of life; no mere boys, but men in
the best sense of the word, sturdy and full-set. Even for gunners
they are a fine lot; and during this lull preceding the coming storm,
the sight of this little collection of splendid men and horses raises
thoughts as to whether any other army in the world can produce their
equal. Both men and animals are the last word in continuous training
and scientific preparation applied to picked material. Not only are
they good to look upon, but good to act. From the showy prettiness
of a tournament driving competition to the serious business of
getting on to the target, they excel; for here at this moment is
collected the smartest brigade of field-artillery in the army--and
that means, as they think, the smartest brigade in the world: they
are armed also with the best guns in the world. There stand the guns
one after another slewed across the narrow road, almost blocking it
with their length. Wicked they look in their dusty greenish paint,
with an occasional glint of steel where it has been scraped off.
Even to the uninitiated these quick-firers have a more venomous
appearance than the simple old guns; for, with their long, low-hung
bodies peering mysteriously from behind their shields, they look like
monstrous grasshoppers crouching on a hill. Ugly and venomous
looking, they are the pride of their owners. Though he may not talk
much about it, never has there been a true gunner who did not love
his weapon and thrill with the idea of using it.
To those, now a little thoughtful on account of the legends
concerning the enemy's wonderful quick-firing artillery, the sight of
their own, whose powers they have so often tested on the
practice-ground, is reassuring. They have the best gun ever
invented, and at speed of ranging and accuracy of fire they are
unequalled. What more? Are they not going to catch the enemy
unawares? And to be caught unawares by a squall of shrapnel from
modern quick-firers means extinction.
To the officers, the exact nature of the present task is known, and
the possibilities of the occasion better appreciated--for though as
yet without personal experience in war, they know to what a pitch all
the nations have brought their quick-firing artillery, and what is
expected from its "_rafales_," "_tir rapide_," "_schnell
feuer_"--call it what you will--upon an exposed and unsuspecting
enemy. They are standing alongside the horses, one feeling his
animal's legs, another loosening a girth, but the majority cheerfully
talking in little groups.
At last the dreary wait is over, a flag flickers from one hill to the
other. "The enemy's balloons are down." With a sigh of relief the
order is passed, and the brigade moves on, slowly at first, then
breaking into a trot, for its destination is still some way off, and
time, tide, and the chances for quick-firing artillery wait for no
man.
The message has come down from the youngest of the three officers who
were making the reconnaissance under the hedge two hours ago. For
the past hour he has been watching those malignant balloons from that
same spot, and whistling for the wind. As the wind has risen, so
have his spirits. It is a difficult thing to gauge the height of an
object in the air, and several times he has thought that the balloon
nearest the enemy's guns seems lower than it was, only to find out he
is wrong.
The cloud-bank to the west grows larger, and as its ragged edge
creeps up over the blue sky, the dark background shows up the
glistening balloons the more brilliantly. The two farthest off are
coming down--there is no doubt about it--and at last the nearer one
seems lower. Yes--it is! Down, down it sinks. When it is quite
close to the ground he waves to a signaller behind the road, who
passes on the message, and so back it goes to the waiting brigade.
He crawls behind the hedge for a moment to watch the range-takers,
who have been up here for the past half-hour and have taken and
checked and rechecked the distance to the enemy's guns. Some men
with tools also, who have uprooted the gate-posts, and widened some
openings from the lane on to the hilltop, are now cutting little
windows through the hedge on the brow. A few officers arrive ahead
of the batteries, and to these he points out their positions and the
target and range.
All is ready, and the head of the column is even now jangling up the
hill.