Up and down the long line, men stood shouting, men jerked triggers, muzzles roared and recoiled, shells leapt to open breech, breech-blocks twirled home, gunners—knees astride—clung to rocking seats. And round the rocking, roaring guns, deafened men still toiled with pick and shovel at the sandbag epaulments. Batteries were firing independently: and Stark, mackintosh spread on the parados of a crumbling trench, watched them without a word. He felt a hand on his arm; saw two fingers and a cigar pointing over his shoulder, forward and upward through the gun-flashes. “See that sausage, sir,” shouted P.J. in his ear. The Weasel looked round at his Adjutant: the Adjutant flickered an eye towards the crowded horse-lines. “Behind those houses,” rasped the Weasel. “Get ’em away quietly, or they’ll panic. And tell ’em to post a look-out man to watch for signals.” “Not bad for a civilian,” thought the Weasel as he watched Peter stroll calmly to the haystack, tap Horrocks on the shoulder. The balloon had gone down again; guns were still firing; and across the fields—veterinary officer’s white breeches at their head—filed at a walk the horses of the Headquarters Staff. Now, in and out among the tethered teams at the battery horse-lines, cigar in mouth, strode a stocky figure, whispering, “Hook in and get away quietly. Behind those houses. At a walk, please, Quartermaster Sergeant.” Like figures in a quadrille, the bays and browns and blacks of the teams, the dark green of the ammunition wagons, curved to slow life; emerged into four long lines that unrolled steadily across the dun fields to safety. But as the lines drew clear, they revealed behind them, low dark bunches in the middle distance; other horses—hundreds and hundreds of horses. . . . “_Ich kann nicht genau sehen_,” mumbled a guttural voice three and a half miles away, “_aber am Dreiweg finden wir sicher etwas. Also, los damit, lieber Oberleutnant._” . . . Peter heard, above the roar of his own guns, a high shrill scream; saw a black fountain spurt from the ground three hundred yards in front. The Weasel was on his feet, hands to mouth, “Take cover,” roared the Weasel. “Take cover. All except gun-numbers into the trench.” For the diggers had stopped work, stood staring at the dropping fountain. Rose another scream up the sky. . . . “Get down, you fools, get down.” Now the Weasel was half way along the flashing line. . . . The scream came shrieking to earth, stopped. A hundred yards in front, a few clods leapt from the ground. “Under cover. . . . Under cover.” . . . Like rabbits to burrow men popped to earth. . . . But still the guns went on.