Somewhere near a dog barked loudly when the echo of the explosion died
away, and a steed neighed in the horse-lines on the other side of the
marsh. Then, drowning all other noises, an English gun spoke and a
projectile wheeled through the air and towards the enemy. The monster
of the thicket awake from a twelve hour sleep was speaking. Bill and I
knew where he was hidden; the great gun that the enemy had been trying
to locate for months and which he never discovered. He, the monster of
the thicket, was working havoc in the foeman's trenches, and day after
day great searching shells sped up past our billet warm from the
German guns, but always they went far wide of their mark. Never could
they discover the locality of the terrifying ninety-pounder, he (p. 136)
who slept all day in his thicket home, awoke at midnight and worked
until dawn.
"That's some shootin'," said my mate as the shells shrieked overhead.
"Blimey, they'll shake the country to pieces--and scare the ducks."
Along a road made of bound sapling-bundles we took our way into the
centre of the marsh. Here all was quiet and sombre; the marsh-world
seemed to be lamenting over some ancient wrong. At times a rat would
sneak out of the grass, slink across our path and disappear in the
water, again; a lonely bird would rise into the air and cry piteously
as it flew away, and ever, loud and insistent, threatening and
terrible, the shells would fly over our heads, yelling out their
menace of pain, of sorrow and death as they flew along.
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