A second box was brought up by two more panting men. I distributed the contents among my own platoon. This put a better complexion on things. With plenty of ammunition we had nothing to fear, but the anxiety had been great. The sensation of running short of water in the desert is as nothing compared to that of running short of ammunition in action. "They're getting closer, aren't they?" I said to Sergeant X, listening to the enemy's fire. "I think they are, sir," He refilled his magazine and bent once more over the rifle. "By gad! did you see that flash--they are only a hundred yards off. Here, give me that." I took the rifle from a man next me who had been wounded, and laid it, with the bayonet fixed, on the parapet in front. At the same time I drew my revolver and put it ready for use by my other hand. It was getting exciting this--quite pleasantly so. "What do we do if they charge--get out and meet 'em?" I asked. My sergeant had had more experience of action than I, and I felt I could well afford to ask his advice. "Just stay where we are, sir," he answered; "but they won't do that; they don't like these"--he tapped his bayonet. He was a splendidly calm fellow, that sergeant, and it was good to feel him firm as a rock beside me. All men, N.C.O.s, officers, and privates, instinctively lean towards each other when the corner is tight. For the next five hours the firing continued, sometimes dying down, sometimes swelling to a sharp volley. Ammunition boxes arrived and were emptied. There were moments of acute anxiety when the supply seemed running short. Each man was told to keep fifteen rounds by him at all costs to meet a charge. Sergeant X bent steadily over his rifle, pumping lead into the dark patch where the enemy appeared to be. Sometimes I could hear guttural voices and harsh words of command, somewhere away there in the blackness the enemy were lying. I could see clearly for about forty yards. Would masses of dark shapes suddenly appear? They should have ten rounds from the rifle, then six from the revolver, and then the bayonet would be left. Furtively under cover of the parapet I lit a cigarette, and holding it well screened from the front, puffed big satisfying gasps. All the while the rifles rattled like the sharp ticking of a clock. The firing grew quieter, and from the front there was now only an occasional shot. I suddenly felt sleepy, as though lulled by the rattle of the rifle fire. I sat down a moment on the edge of my dug-out. "Mr. Mulligan's compliments, and could you tell him the time, sir?" I pulled myself together with a start. By Jove, I had nearly been asleep. "What's the time, sergeant?" I asked. There was no reply. Sergeant X was nodding as he stood, arms folded over his rifle. He, too, as the firing died down had been overcome by sleep. I sent back the time to Mulligan, each man passing the message to the man next him.