A swarm of "bees"
buzzed overhead, a few dropped into the trench and Pryor who gripped
one with his hand swore under his breath. The splinter was almost
red-hot.
The trench was voluble.
"I'm chokin'; get off me tummy."
"Your boot's on my face."
"Nobody struck?"
"Nobody." (p. 191)
"Gawd! I hope they don't send many packets like that."
"Spread out a little to the left," came the order from an officer.
"When you hear a shell coming lie flat."
We got to our feet, all except Stoner, who was still asleep in his
lair, and changed our positions, our ears alert for the arrival of the
next shell. The last bee had scarcely ceased to buzz when we heard the
second projectile coming.
"Another couple of steps. Hurry up. Down." Again we threw ourselves in
a heap; the shell burst and again we were covered with dust and muck.
"Move on a bit. Quicker! The next will be here in a minute," was the
cry and we stumbled along the narrow alley hurriedly as if our lives
depended on the very quickness. When we came to a halt there was only
a space of two feet between each man. The trench was just wide enough
for the body of one, and all set about to sort themselves in the best
possible manner. A dozen shells now came our way in rapid succession.
Some of the men went down on their knees and pressed their faces close
to the ground like Moslems at prayer. They looked for all the (p.
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