The crew in front of Jerry reloaded at top speed. The great gun spoke.
"They're serving those pieces like rifles," said somebody, in Jerry's ear. "By thunder, they're planting shot and shell exactly where they please." That was the surgeon, who had come forward for a view. "But the enemy's making mighty good practice, too. He has German artillery officers."
Suddenly the surgeon yelled, and grabbing Jerry forced him flat.
"Look sharp!"
The parapet of the battery was scored ragged. The gun platforms and the trench were littered with shell fragments and spent solid shot. Now there had sounded a soft "plump" or thud. A round black sphere as large as Jerry's head had landed in the bottom of the wide space behind the guns—it was only a few feet to the rear of the quarter-gunner who stood holding in his arms a copper tank containing the powder charges. Each charge weighed ten pounds.
He heard the thump, and what did he do but turn and stoop and put his hand upon the thing! Evidently it was hot—it was smoking—a shell! Down dived the quarter-gunner, quick as a wink, plastering himself against the ground. There was a chorus of startled shouts, and—"Boom!" the shell had exploded.
The tremendous shock drove Jerry rolling over and over. As seemed to him, the trench and the emplacements and the battery and all the men had been blown to bits. But when he picked himself up amidst the dense smoke, instead of seeing bloody
