“Bombs!” he cried to the sergeant who had told him. “Bombs of all sorts—plum and apple, hair-brush, any damn thing you can get, and all the men at once!” They scrabbled them out of the débris and searched for them in the mud, where they had been buried, and at last the party was ready—ten in all.
“What’s the jest?” said the sapper officer, dropping into the trench as they were being mustered.
“Boches lower down. We’re bombing them out,” answered Gerald.
“Then, for Heaven’s sake, see the fuse isn’t too long,” he replied. “Just over an inch is enough for traverse work, or they’ll bung ’em back.” (An inch of the fuse used will burn about a second and a half.)
With that the party was off, led by Gerald. And they crept on till, suddenly, the sergeant gripped his arm and muttered: “They’re behind the next traverse.” And from behind the earth in front came a guttural exclamation in German.
Gerald, gripping a rifle, was quivering with excitement. He stole forward to where the trench bent back behind the traverse, while
