Part 7 (2/2)

Well, that's how this present entertainment impresses me. All this noise and obstreperousness are leading up to one thing--Kaiser Bill's entrance. Preliminary bombardment--that's the chorus getting to work!

Minor characters--the trench-mortars--spread the glad news! Band _and_ chorus--that's the grand attack working up to boiling-point! Finally, preceded by clouds of gas, the Arch-Comedian in person, supported by spectacled coryphees in bra.s.s hats! How's that for a Christmas pantomime?”

”Rotten!” said Bobby, as a sh.e.l.l sang over the parapet and burst in the wood behind.

II

Kaiser or no Kaiser, Major Wagstaffe's extravagant a.n.a.logy held good.

As Christmas drew nearer, the band played louder and faster; the chorus swelled higher and shriller; and it became finally apparent that something (or somebody) of portentous importance was directing the storm.

Between six and seven next morning, the Battalion, which had stood to arms all night, lifted up its heavy head and sniffed the misty dawn-wind--an east wind--dubiously. Next moment gongs were clanging up and down the trench, and men were tearing open the satchels which contained their anti-gas helmets.

Major Wagstaffe, who had been sent up from Battalion Headquarters to take general charge of affairs in the firing-trench, b.u.t.toned the bottom edge of his helmet well inside his collar and clambered up on the firing-step to take stock of the position. He crouched low, for a terrific bombardment was in progress, and sh.e.l.ls were almost grazing the parapet.

Presently he was joined by a slim young officer similarly disguised.

It was the Commander of ”A” Company. Wagstaffe placed his head close to Bobby's left ear, and shouted through the cloth--

”We shan't feel this gas much. They're letting it off higher up the line. Look!”

Bobby, laboriously inhaling the tainted air inside his helmet,--being preserved from a gas attack is only one degree less unpleasant than being ga.s.sed,--turned his goggles northward.

In the dim light of the breaking day he could discern a greenish-yellow cloud rolling across from the Boche trenches on his left.

”Will they attack?” he bellowed.

Wagstaffe nodded his head, and then cautiously unb.u.t.toned his collar and rolled up the front of his helmet. Then, after delicately sampling the atmosphere by a cautious sniff, he removed his helmet altogether.

Bobby followed his example. The air was not by any means so pure as might have been desired, but it was infinitely preferable to that inside a gas-helmet.

”Nothing to signify,” p.r.o.nounced Wagstaffe. ”We're only getting the edge of it. Sergeant, pa.s.s down that men may roll up their helmets, but must keep them on their heads. Now, Bobby, things are getting interesting. Will they attack, or will they not?”

”What do you think?” asked Bobby.

”They are certainly going to attack farther north. The Boche does not waste gas as a rule--not this sort of gas! And I think he'll attack here too. The only reason why he has not switched on our anaesthetic is that the wind isn't quite right for this bit of the line. I think it is going to be a general push. Bobby, have a look through this sniper's loophole. Can you see any bayonets twinkling in the Boche trenches?”

Bobby applied an eye to the loophole.

”Yes,” he said, ”I can see them. Those trenches must be packed with men.”

”Absolutely stiff with them,” agreed Wagstaffe, getting out his revolver. ”We shall be in for it presently. Are your fellows all ready, Bobby?”

The youthful Captain ran his eye along the trench, where his Company, with magazines loaded and bayonets fixed, were grimly awaiting the onset. There had been an onset similar to this, with the same green, nauseous accompaniment, in precisely the same spot eight months before, which had broken the line and penetrated for four miles.

There it had been stayed by a forlorn hope of cooks, brakesmen, and officers' servants, and disaster had been most gloriously retrieved.

What was going to happen this time? One thing was certain: the day of stink-pots was over.

”When do you think they'll attack?” shouted Bobby to Wagstaffe, battling against the noise of bursting sh.e.l.ls.

<script>