mountains and the guns went out, and there floated in that roaring
office of the 'Daily Mail' instead, and the warm, rustling vestibule of
the playhouse on a December night. This is the way we make war now; only
for the instant it was half joke and half home-sickness. Where were we?
What were we doing?

"Right-hand Gun Hill fired, sir," came the even voice of the bluejacket.
"At the balloon."

"Captain wants to speak to you, sir," came the voice of the sapper from
under the tarpaulin.

Whistle and rattle and pop went the shell in the valley below.

"Give him a round both guns together," said the captain to the
telephone.

"Left-hand Gun Hill fired, sir," said the bluejacket to the captain.

Nobody cared about left-hand Gun Hill; he was only a 47 howitzer; every
glass was clamped on the big yellow emplacement.

"Right-hand Gun Hill is up, sir."

Bang coughs the forward gun below us; bang-g-g coughs the after-gun
overhead. Every glass clamped on the emplacement.

"What a time they take!" sighs a lieutenant--then a leaping cloud a
little in front and to the right.

"Damn!" sighs a peach-cheeked midshipman, who--

"Oh, good shot!" For the second has landed just over and behind the
epaulement. "Has it hit the gun?"

"No such luck," says the captain: he was down again five seconds after
we fired.

And the men had all gone to earth, of course.

Ting-a-ling-a-ling!

Down dives the sapper, and presently his face reappears, with
"Headquarters to speak to you, sir." What the captain said to
Headquarters is not to be repeated by the profane: the captain knows
his mind, and speaks it. As soon as that was over, ting-a-ling again.

"Mr Halsey wants to know if he may fire again, sir."

"He may have one more"--for shell is still being saved for Christmas.

It was all quite unimportant and probably quite ineffective. At first it
staggers you to think that mountain-shaking bang can have no result; but
after a little experience and thought you see it would be a miracle if
it had. The emplacement is a small mountain in itself; the men have run
out into holes. Once in a thousand shots you might hit the actual gun
and destroy it--but shell is being saved for Christmas.

If the natives and deserters are not lying, and the sailors really hit
Pepworth's Long Tom, then that gunner may live on his exploit for the
rest of his life.

"We trust we've killed a few men," says the captain cheerily; "but we
can't hope for much