“I wonder they don’t make you sick. Had any sleep?” “No, sir.” They looked at each other, the two unshaven men; and both laughed for the first time in twenty-four hours. Whatever else happened, the fourth Brigade was at least in position. Merrilees, solemn as an owl, came up with “Mr. Conway’s compliments” and “should he lay his guns on that tree”; departed with his instructions. By now, sticks were crackling in the deserted trench, tea boiling and bacon sizzling. Weary men struggled into their tunics; ate and drank gratefully. “Keep ’em at it,” said the Weasel, as they passed the last gun on their way to breakfast. “Very good, sir,” answered horsy Hutchinson; and added _sotto voce_, “what the devil does the old man think we’re all made of—pigskin!” . . . “Rotten job, driving tired men, isn’t it, P.J.?” said the Weasel, balancing himself—mug in hand—on the shafts of the doctor’s cart. “But I don’t like the look of that,” he pointed to the far pit-wheel, “and I don’t like the look of this,” he indicated the cross-roads, “in fact, _entre nous_, the more I see of things all round, the less I like any of ’em.” Half way through breakfast, Peter—called to the telephone—heard Lodden’s voice. They had made out, roughly, the infantry’s position; were coming back. Would Peter send up O’Grady and one other subaltern to observe? At half-past six, the four battery commanders returned. It was still too misty for shooting. Appeared, on a frisky charger, red hat glowing, eagerness personified, Murchison the Brigade Major. He waved a large white map at the Weasel; pointed with his finger to a wriggly red line on it. “We want you to open fire on that trench, Colonel. Fire as much as you like: but don’t fire a round after 10:30; because the Infantry are going to charge then.” “Who’s going to cut the enemy wire?” To Peter, overhearing, the tired voice sounded very serious. “Oh, that’ll be all right.” Murchison galloped off. The right-hand gun of the Brigade shot out a tongue of flame; a sandbag dropped from its parapet. O’Grady, beyond the crest, had begun his ranging. Appeared, on a quiet brown mare, Coolsdon, the Staff Captain. He, too, had a white map in his hand; indicated a target. “Oh, if Murchison’s been here,” said Coolsdon; and galloped off. . . . Now, all round the great saucer of chalk, men bent to telephone receivers. “Add 100. Five minutes more right,” shouted the men, and voices down the gun-line repeated, “Add 100. Five minutes more right.” The thing that ballooned slowly into the air behind Fosse Eight, could not hear the shouting men; but it could see, vaguely through the low mist, tiny sparks of fire in the great saucer! § 4 “_Three rounds Battery-fire. One-O seconds._” “_Stop._” “_Add twenty-five._” “_Two rounds Battery fire, One-O seconds._” “_Go on._” “_At Battery fire, sweep one five minutes._”