There was a large and much
be-mired soldier who spraddled face downward upon his belly in one of
the straw-lined dugouts with his ear hitched to a telephone. Without
lifting his head or turning it he sang out. At that all the other men
sprang up very promptly. Before, they had been sprawled about in sunny
places, smoking and sleeping, and writing on postcards. Postcards,
butter and beer--these are the German private's luxuries, but most of
all postcards. The men bestirred themselves.
"You are in luck, gentlemen," said the lieutenant. "This battery has
been idle all day, but now it is to begin firing. The order to fire
just came. The balloon operator, who is in communication with the
observation pits beyond the foremost infantry trenches, will give the
range and the distance. Listen, please." He held up his hand for
silence, intent on hearing what the man at the telephone was repeating
back over the line. "Ah, that's it--5400 meters straight over the tree
tops."
He waved us together into a more compact group.
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