BOMBS
Wecounted them as they came up the communication trench, and the Commander of “AK” Company paled; yet he was a brave man. He cast a despairing glance around him, and then looked at me.
“George,” he said (you may not believe it, but there can be a world of pathos put into that simple name). “George, we are Goners.”
By this time they had reached the front line.
My thoughts flew to the Vermoral sprayer, last time it had been the Vermoral sprayer. Was the V.S. filled, or was it not...?
They came from scent to view, and pulling himself together with a click of the heels closely imitated by the S.I.C., the O.C. “AK” Coy. saluted.
“Good morning, sir!”
The General acknowledged the salute, but the ends of his moustache quivered. G.S.O.one, directly in rear, frowned. The Colonel looked apprehensive, and glared at both of us. The Brigadier was glum, the Brigade Major very red in the face. Two of those beastly supercilious Aides looked at each other, smiled, glanced affectionately at their red tabs and smiled again.
It was exactly 2.29 “pip emma” when the mine went up.
“Discipline, sir,” said the General, “discipline is lacking in your company! You have a sentry on duty at the head of Chelwyn Road. A sentry! What does he do when he sees me? Not a damn thing, sir! Not a damn thing!”
Of course the O.C. “AK” made a bad break; one always does under such circumstances.
“He may not have seen you, sir.”
G.S.O. one moved forward in support, so that if overcome the General could fall back on his centre.
A whizz-bang burst in 94—we were in 98—and the Staff ducked, taking the time from the front. The Aides carried out the movementparticularly smartly, resuming the upright position in strict rotation.
The General fixed us with a twin Flammenwerfer gaze.
“What’s that? Notseeme? What the devil is he there for, sir? I shall remember this, Captain—ah, Roberts—I shall remember this!”
Pause.
“Where is your Vermoral sprayer?”
Like lambkins followed by voracious lions, we lead them to the Vermoral sprayer.
I was at the retaking of Hill 60, at Ypres long months ago, at Festubert and Givenchy, but never was I so inspired with dread as now.
Praise be to Zeus, the V.S. was full!
We passed on, until we reached a bomber cleaning bombs. The General paused. The bomber, stood to attention, firmly grasping a bomb in the right hand, knuckles down, forearm straight.
“Ha!” said the General. “Ha! Bombs, what?”
The bomber remained apparently petrified.
“What I always say about these bombs,”the General continued, turning to the Brigadier, “is that they’re so damn simple, what? A child can use them. You can throw them about, and, provided the pin is in, no harm will come of it. But”—looking sternly at me—“alwaysmake sure the pin is safely imbedded in the base of the bomb. That is the first duty of a man handling bombs.”
We all murmured assent, faintly or otherwise, according to rank.
“Give me that bomb,” said the General to the bomber, waxing enthusiastic. The man hesitated. The General glared, the bomb became his.
We stood motionless around him. “You see, gentlemen,” the General continued jocularly. “I take this bomb, and I throw it on the ground—so! It does not explode, it cannot explode, the fuse is not lit, for the pin——”
Just then the bomber leapt like a fleeting deer round the corner, but the General was too engrossed to notice him.
“As I say, the pin——”
A frightened face appeared round the bay, and a small shaky voice broke in:
“Please, sir, it’s a five-second fuse—an’I ’ad took HOUT the pin!”
After all the General reached the traverse in time and we were not shot at dawn. But G.S.O. one has gone to England “Wounded and shell-shock.”