Outside the little house at Annequin, cigar between his lips, Peter Jameson stood watching the show. All round the eastward horizon, gun-flashes winked and blazed, lighting up the sky. Far to southward, beat the continuous drum of French seventy-fives, firing _la rafale_. Every half-minute, from one or other of the pits below the shadowy trees in front of him, spurted a flash of orange, followed by the bark of an 18-pounder, the dwindled hiss of flighting shell, the faint thud of its alighting. In the pits themselves, laboured tired and grimy men, sleepless for three days and four nights;—an orderly labour, unhurried: shell to open breech, breech-block clanged home, eye to dial-sight, hand to range-dial: “_Set_,” “_Ready_,” eye to watch, fingers to ear-drums, “_Fire_,” roar of piece discharging, rocking carriage, stink of cordite, “_Repeat!_” So men laboured, unhurried but unsleeping, at Vermelles and Noyelles-Les-Vermelles, at Cuinchy and Noeux-Les-Mines, northwards and southwards. The intermittent thunder of their labours came to Peter, standing alone in the moonlight: and with it came the jingle and clank of ammunition waggons, the far crackle of an occasional machine-gun, the sound of Scotch singing from shuttered houses in the village on his left. He turned; went into the house. In the gloomy Mess-room, sat Stark—pile of typewritten sheets at his elbow, marked map spread out on the table among the débris of dinner. Driver Nicholson crouched in the corner by the telephone. “What’s it like outside?” asked the Weasel. “Oh, pretty quiet, sir. The Boche don’t appear to be firing at all.” “Any wind?” “Not a breath. It’ll be bad for our gas.” “Pity.” Stark bent to his map again. The telephone buzzed. “Mr. Purves, speaking from the dug-out, sir.” Peter stepped over, took up the instrument. “A battery report their No. 3 gun out of action.” “What’s that?” asked Stark. “How did it happen?” Peter got through to the battery, heard Lodden’s voice over the wire. “Yes. That infernal eighty-over-forty-four fuze with the new gaine. Blown about six inches off the muzzle. No. Nobody hurt. And my number two gun’s running-up very badly. Can you send Staff Sergeant Barrie down? . . . As soon as he comes in. Thanks.” Peter gave the necessary orders to Purves; rejoined his Colonel over the attack-plans. “Follow ’em?” asked Stark. “Yes, sir. We’ve got five Divisions in the front line and supports. Forty-seventh; fifteenth; ninth; first and seventh. They’re to break the front; open out; and let the Cavalry through. _Our_ batteries don’t take part in anything except preliminary bombardment. After that, we stop where we are. But what I can’t understand, sir, is about the Reserves. We don’t seem to have any.” Driver Nicholson, listening open-eared, was sent out of the room by Stark.