(Perhaps, at this point, it would be as well to introduce Minnie a
little more formally. She is the most unpleasant of her sex, and her
full name is _Minenwerfer_, or German trench-mortar. She resides,
spasmodically, in Unter den Linden. Her extreme range is about two
hundred yards, so she confines her attentions to front-line trenches.
Her _modus operandi_ is to discharge a large cylindrical bomb into the
air. The bomb, which is about fifteen inches long and some eight inches
in diameter, describes a leisurely parabola, performing grotesque
somersaults on the way, and finally falls with a soft thud into the
trench or against the parapet. There, after an interval of ten seconds,
Minnie's offspring explodes; and as she contains about thirty pounds of
dynamite, no dugout or parapet can stand against her.)
"Did she do much damage?" inquires the Gunner.
"Killed two men and buried another. They were in a dugout."
The Gunner shakes his head.
"No good taking cover against Minnie," he says. "The only way is to
come out into the open trench, and dodge her."
"So we found," replies Blaikie. "But they pulled our legs badly the
first time. They started off with three 'whizz-bangs'"--a whizz-bang is
a particularly offensive form of shell which bursts two or three times
over, like a Chinese cracker--"so we all took cover and lay low. The
consequence was that Minnie was able to send her little contribution
along unobserved. The filthy thing fell short of the trench, and
exploded just as we were all getting up again. It smashed up three or
four yards of parapet, and scuppered the three poor chaps I mentioned."
"Have you located her?"
"Yes. Just behind that stunted willow, on our left front. I fancy they
bring her along there to do her bit, and then trot her back to billets,
out of harm's way. She is their two o'clock turn--two A.M.
_and two_ P.M."
"Two o'clock turn--h'm!" says the Gunner major meditatively. "What
about our chipping in with a one-fifty-five turn--half a dozen H E
shells into Minnie's dressing-room--eh? I must think this over."
"Do!" said Blaikie cordially. "Minnie is Willie's Worst Werfer, and the
sooner she is put out of action the better for all of us. To-day, for
some reason, she failed to appear, but previous to that she has not
failed for five mornings in succession to batter down the same bit of
our parapet."
"Where's that?" asks the major, getting out a trench-map.
"P 7--a most unhealthy spot. Minnie pushes it over about two every
morning. The result is that we have to mount guard over the breach
all day. We build everything up again at night, and Minnie sits there
as good as gold, and never dreams of interfering. You can almost
hear her cooing over us. Then, as I say, at two o'clock, just as the
working party comes in and gets under cover, she lets slip one of her
disgusting bombs, and undoes the work of about four hours. It was a
joke at first, but we are getting fed up now. That's the worst of the
Boche. He starts by being playful; but if not suppressed at once,
he gets rough; and that, of course, spoils all the harmony of the
proceedings. So I cordially commend your idea of the one-fifty-five
turn, sir."
"I'll see what can be done," says the major. "I think the best plan
would be a couple of hours' solid frightfulness, from every battery we
can switch on. To-morrow afternoon, perhaps, but I'll let you know.
You'll have to clear out of this bit of trench altogether, as we shall
shoot pretty low. So long!"