'Battery fire one second,' the Observing Officer shouted without turning his head from his watch over the parapet. 'Number one fired--two fired--three fired,' the signaller called rapidly, and the Observing Officer watched narrowly the white cotton-wool clouds of the bursting shrapnel of his guns. 'Number three, ten minutes more right--all guns, drop twenty-five--repeat,' he ordered, and in swift obedience the guns began to drop their shrapnel showers, sweeping along the ground in front of the German trench. But the expected rush of Germans hung fire. A line of bobbing heads and shoulders had showed above their parapet and only a few scattered groups had clambered over its top. 'They're beat,' shouted the infantry officer, exultingly. 'They're dodging back. Give it to 'em, boys--give it--_ow_!' He broke off and ducked down with a hand clapped to his cheek where a bullet had scored its way. 'Get down! get down! Make your men get down,' said the gunner officer rapidly. 'It's all . . .' Again there came the swishing rush of the light shells, a series of quick-following bangs, and a hail of shrapnel tearing across the trench, before the men had time to duck. 'All a false alarm--just a dodge to get your men's heads up within reach of their Fizz-Bangs' shrapnel,' said the artilleryman, and called to the signaller. 'All guns raise twenty-five. Section fire five seconds. . . . Hullo--hit?' he continued to the Platoon officer, as he noticed him wiping a smear of blood from his cheek. 'Just a nice little scratch,' said the lad, grinning. 'Enough to let me swank about being wounded and show off a pretty scar to my best girl when the war's over.' 'Afraid that last shrapnel burst gave some of your fellows more'n a pretty scar,' said the gunner. 'But I suppose I'd better slow my guns up again. . . . Jackson, tell them the attack's evidently stopped--section fire ten seconds.' 'Can't you keep on belting 'em for a bit?' asked the Platoon officer. 'Might make 'em ease up on us.' The gunner shook his head regretfully. 'I'd ask nothing better,' he said. 'I could just give those trenches beans. But our orders are strict, and we daren't waste a round on anything but an attack. I'll bet that's my Major wanting to know if he can't slack off a bit more,' he continued, as the signaller called something about 'Wanted to speak here, sir.' He went to the instrument and held a short conversation. 'Told you so,' he said, when he returned to the infantry officer. 'No attack--no shells. We're stopping again.' 'Doesn't seem to be too much stop about the Germs,' grumbled the infantryman, as another series of crackling shells shook the ground close behind them. He moved down the line speaking a few words here and there to the crouching men of his platoon.