most
alarmin' regularity. They was all pitchin' plumb on that road, an' each
one about fifty to a hundred yards nearer our procession, an' us walkin'
straight into the shower too. The swoosh-bang o' each one kep' gettin'
louder an' louder, an' not a single one was missin' the road. I tell
you, I could feel the flesh creepin' on my bones an' a feelin' in the pit
o' my stomach like I'd swallowed a tuppenny ice-cream whole. There was
no way o' dodgin', remember. We'd a ditch lippin' full o' water along
both sides o' the road an' we knew without lookin'--though the Left'nant
did 'ave one squint--that they was the usual brand o' ditch hereabouts,
anythin' down to six foot deep an' sides cut down as straight as a cellar
wall. It was no use trottin' 'cos we might just be hurryin' up to be in
time to arrive on the right spot to meet one. An' it was no use haltin'
for exactly the same reason. The Left'nant reins back beside the leadin'
team, an' believe me there wasn't one pair o' eyes in all that outfit
that wasn't glued on 'im nor a pair o' ears that wasn't waitin' anxious
for some order to come, an' I'm includin' my own eyes an' ears in the
catalogue. There was nothin' to be done an' nothin' to be said, an' we
all knew it, but at the same time we was ready to jump to any order the
Left'nant passed out. The shells was droppin' at about ten to fifteen
seconds' interval, an' we could see it was goin' to be a matter o' blind
luck whether one pitched short or over or fair a-top o' us. They were
closer spaced, too, as they come nearer, an' I reckon there wasn't more'n
fifty or sixty yards atween the last two or three bursts. An' we was
still walkin' on, every man wi' his reins short an' feelin' 'is 'orse's
mouth, an' his knees grippin' the saddle hard.

'"Bang!" one hits the road about one-fifty to two hundred yards short an'
we heard chips o' it whizz an' hum past us. The Left'nant looks, round.
"When I say 'trot' you'll trot," he shouts, "an' no man is to stop or
slow up to pick up anyone hit."

'Next second, "Crash!" comes another about a hundred yards off, an'
before the lumps of it sung past, "Ter-r-rot!" yells the Left'nant. Now
some people might call the en-sooin' movement a trot, an' some might call
it a warm canter an' first cousin to a gallop. We sees the game in a
wink--to get past the spot the next crump was due to arrive on afore it
did arrive. We did it too--handsome an' wi' some to spare, though when