The same landscape as watched by the three under the hedge, but
viewed from the other side. In the foreground, half hidden among the
patches of gorse on a gentle slope, is a long irregular line of
perhaps twenty guns. It is difficult even at this short distance to
count their number, for they are dotted about here and there amongst
the clumps of cover. Though of a grayer hue, they have a strong
family resemblance to those others resting in the little lane on the
hillside. By each is a water-bucket, the purpose of which is shown
by the damp earth round the gun, and the absence of dust. Alongside
also are little shelter-pits dug for the gun detachments, the bright
yellow of the freshly turned earth artfully concealed with pieces of
bush. The guns, the limbers, and the very horses themselves--over
there in the rear--are embowered in greenery. The incongruous
Jack-in-the-Green appearance thus given to these engines of
destruction seems at first ill-timed foolery. It strikes a jarring
note, as does laughter in the presence of death. Overhead, to one
side of the line of guns, a huge yellow balloon sways in the rising
wind and strains at the cable which slants away down to a small
collection of wagons in a convenient hollow.
To the general din of battle all round is periodically added the roar
of some of the guns in the line as a target worthy of a "_rafale_" of
shell is found. The paroxysms of noise indulged in at intervals by
these quick-firers are the only sign they give of their action, for
they neither belch out flame nor kick up dust. Each fresh outburst
seems to call up an echo from the direction of some absurdly
ill-concealed earthworks about half a mile to the rear. The enemy
are shooting badly. Few shells fall near the guns, though many pass
over with a shriek to burst in the neighbourhood of those conspicuous
earthworks, whose parapet must be a very shell trap, so continuous
are the explosions on it. An occasional heavy shell rumbles up from
the South, and, passing over with the noise of an electric tram,
detonates in a fountain of yellow earth near the same target.
Near the focus of these explosions are a number of men sitting at the
bottom of deep holes, and from their occupation it appears that not
all the explosions so close to them are caused by hostile shell.
They are busily employed in setting off flash bombs just outside
their yellow parapet whenever their own artillery fires. And as two
more shrapnel from different directions whistle high above the
much-decorated guns, and burst over the pits, it is clear that the
latter are the targets aimed at.
This is the method in the madness of these troglodytes in their pits
and of the other stage effects.
Some little way from his guns is a dried-up saturnine sort of man,
dirty and anything but smart--the commander of the artillery. He is
talking to a staff-officer, with occasional pauses as he stoops to
gaze through a telescope mounted on a tripod, not to the southeast,
in which direction his guns are firing, but toward the hills to the
east. Close by sits another officer at a field telephone in a hole
in the ground; such work is at the present moment too important for
an orderly. From the instrument a cable, sagging from one bush to
another in loops, leads toward the wagons near the balloon anchorage:
this cable is the nerve leading from the eye up aloft to the nerve
centre below. A few soldiers are sitting about. Not only do these
men wear a different uniform from those other gunners now perspiring
on that hillside, but they are unmistakably of a different race.
The Commander again takes a long look toward the hills where
something seems to excite his apprehension, for he converses
earnestly with the staff-officer, and the two look more than once
toward a poplar tree the top half of which is visible above that hill
on the East. The wind increases.
The distant balloons are already gradually descending, and a message
shortly comes down from the observer above that it is too windy to
remain up. The word is given, and slowly the great mass is hauled
down to the depression near the wagons, where it is practically
hidden, its approach to the ground being the occasion of special
attentions from the enemy. Here, like Gulliver among the
Lilliputians, it is seized by many hands and bound. Hardly has it
nestled, with much heaving of billowy sides, into its hollow, when
the eye is attracted by something dancing up and down among the
brushwood close to it. It is an oblong framework, partially covered
with dirty gray canvas, which has commenced to make sundry abortive
little swoops up into the air, ending in abrupt dives down again to
earth. Finally this weird kite--for kite it is--makes up its mind
and sails steadily upward to the tune of its whining cable-drum. Up,
up it goes, holding well in the strong breeze till it becomes a mere
speck in the sky. Another kite follows, then another, and again one
more, threaded on the same cable, till with the combined pull it is
stretched as taut as a piano wire, and hums in the breeze like the
weather mainstay of a racing yacht.
The Commander walks over to the starting-point of the kites, where,
sitting near an exaggerated clothes-basket, is a young officer. He
is unshaven, his face is pale and drawn, and he appears worn out as
he sips slowly from the cup of his flask, but as his senior
approaches, he rises, salutes, and listens attentively to his
somewhat lengthy instructions. He is an exceptionally slight man,
and his general air of fatigue is explained by the fact that he has
been observing from the balloon for the past three hours; the dark
rings under his eyes show where the constant strain has most told.
In spite of this he is again to go up in the kite, not because there
is none other capable, but because the advantage of having up aloft a
pair of eyes that already know the lie of the country is at the
present juncture of greater importance than the fatigue of any man.
As the Commander concludes his harangue, a shell bursts on the ground
close to him, covering him with sand. He does not pause to shake the
sand off, but finishes his sentence: "Of course it is a chance, but
they may not notice you go up against this cloudy background, and may
be tempted to take up that position by seeing the balloon go down.
If they do, well--" and he looks toward his guns and smiles
thoughtfully.
The younger man nods, takes one more pull at his flask, feels if both
pairs of field-glasses are hanging round his neck--he carries
two--straps a telephone receiver and mouthpiece round his head, and
climbs into the clothes-basket which is held by the men. The basket
is attached to the rigid kite cable by runners. After the gear is
tried, another large kite, which is harnessed to his prosaic-looking
chariot, is thrown into the air. Making one or two ineffectual
dives, it catches the wind and begins to pull. Slowly at first the
observer rises, then faster as the great wings above him catch more
of the breeze. Now they feel it, and up he sails like a pantomime
stormfiend, to the accompanying moan of the wire vibrating in the
wind. In a few moments he is a stationary spot far up on the
slanting wire.
How insignificant in contrast to the great bulk of the balloon does
the whole collection of kites appear--yet--the eye is there.