Somme, 1st Battle of the, France, 1916 -- Fiction; World War, 1914-1918 -- Fiction
He lay for several minutes, watching the spot where the German was
concealed as a cat watches a mouse-hole, and when his patience was
rewarded by a glimpse of gray uniform he took steady aim, carefully
squeezed the trigger until he felt the faint check of its second
pull-off, held his breath, and gave the final squeeze, all in exact
accordance with the school of musketry instructions. The patch of gray
vanished, and Pug could not tell whether he had scored a hit, but
almost immediately he saw the spike and rounded top of the helmet lift
cautiously into sight. Again Pug took slow and deliberate aim but then
hesitated, “Tchick-tchicked” softly between his teeth, aimed again and
fired. The helmet vanished with a jerk. “Lookin’ over the edge of ’is
’ole, ’e was,” said Pug. “An’ at first I didn’t like to shoot for fear
of spoilin’ that ’elmet. But arter all,” he conceded cheerfully, “I
dunno’ that it wouldn’t maybe improve it as a fust-class sooven-eer to
’ave a neat little three-oh-three ’ole drilled in it.”
“Did you drill it?” asked his companion directly.
“Dunno,” admitted Pug, “but I’m keepin’ a careful eye on ’im, an’ I’ll
soon know if ’e moves again.”
But in the process of keeping a careful eye Pug was tempted for an
instant into keeping a less careful head under cover than the situation
demanded. A bullet leaped _whutt_ past within an inch of his ear and
he dropped flat to earth with an oath. “That was ’im,” he said, “I saw
the flash of ’is rifle. Looks like ’e’s got me piped off, an’ it’s
goin’ to be ’im or me for it.”
Chick and another man in the same hole had been busy shooting at any
mark that presented, but when their every appearance above ground began
to be greeted by an unpleasantly close bullet, they ceased to fire
and squatted back in the hole to watch Pug and the conducting of his
duel. A dozen times he and the German fired, each drawing or returning
instant shot for shot, Pug moving from one spot to another in the shell
crater, pushing his rifle out slowly, lifting his head cautiously an
inch at a time.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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