Peter, kneeling behind quivering sandbags, was conscious of a mule braying high in air, of a second’s deadly silence, of a thudding crash; felt a rush of air at his ears; saw something slice the sandbag at his side as a knife slices cheese, plunge into the turf. . . . Then he heard fragments pattering on the hard earth behind him; looked up; and saw, a hundred yards away, standing upright, hands in his pockets, the Weasel; and the Weasel was still shouting “Under cover, you fools, get under cover.” The gun behind which Peter had knelt, went off with a crash. . . . “My aunt,” he thought. Except for the Colonel’s figure, nothing moved behind the guns. Purves and the Doctor, noses to ground, were lying flat against the haystack. Very high in air, another shell went howling on its way. Peter, following the noise with his eyes, found dark clumps of horses; was conscious noise ceased; saw a great black earth-spout shoot up among the horses; heard the double crash of shell’s alighting; saw terrified teams rear and plunge; saw little figures hurling themselves at bridles. . . . Another shell swished over; and another; plunged to ground in rear of him. The whole middle distance seemed a mass of stampeding beasts that hurled themselves through black fountains across the plains. “Didn’t you hear me say get under cover, you sanguinary cigar-merchant?” rasped a voice at his ear. . . . § 5 “Another five minutes,” ordered the Weasel. “Tell ’em they can go to gun-fire if they like.” Hostile shelling had ceased. Only, far away over the roofs of Vermelles, an occasional gray puff-ball betokened shrapnel. Sun shone on bare plain behind, on bare crest in front. Round the farm, little figures moved. Torrington, V.C., pale and shaky, lay in the bottom of the recess between his sections: “What’s that, Sergeant Major?” he asked the man standing behind him. “Colonel says we can go to gun-fire, sir.” “All right. Tell ’em five rounds.” “Five rounds gun-fire,” megaphoned the Sergeant Major. Straker and Pettigrew, kneeling between their pieces, flung out hands in acknowledgment; repeated the order. Flames roared above Torrington’s head; chalk pattered down on him from the trench-walls. “How much longer, Sergeant Major?” “Four minutes yet, sir.” “Battery fire, till the last minute.” “Right sir. . . . At Battery fire, go on.” “God’s teeth,” muttered Torrington, V.C. “I can’t stand this racket much longer.” . . . “_Stop!_” All round the hollow saucer of ground, noise ceased miraculously. Only, every now and then, the howitzers roared separately at their far targets. And from beyond the lip of the saucer came a distant stutter, as of men swinging gigantic rattles—the chattering of machine-guns.