Hastily lighting a cigarette and adjusting my map-case, I was
standing-to, when the telephone bell tinkled. "Hello," said Sir
Percy's voice, "all ready? The planes are out." I glanced up at the
two 500 h.p. Liddell and Scott monoplanes, which circled high up
over the moor. "What do they report?" I asked. "Birds in force at
a.2.B.c.d., x.y.z.6 and A.b.3.m., and small parties in and near the
Heather Redoubt."

At 10.30 I left my smoking weapon and an empty flask, and at 10.35
went over the top. A little later I brought down no fewer than seven
of the enemy with one beautifully timed bomb, and stole a furtive
glance at the others. Nobody had seen me do it. However, I thought,
I shall be able to tell them about it at least three times to-night.

Meanwhile our bearers were collecting the enemy's dead and finishing
off his wounded. Away to the left Sir Percy and half-a-dozen more were
gathered round what I took to be the Heather Redoubt, and every now
and then a little white puff of smoke broke from the ground.

"What's the idea?" I asked over the telephone. "Rabbit warren,"
answered Sir Percy. "Bombing 'em out. I always bomb 'em out. Smithson
uses gas--poor sportsman, Smithson."

* * * * *

I was dozing lazily in the smoking-room, vaguely wondering if I could
tell them about it a fourth time, when suddenly the dressing gong
went, and someone shook me roughly by the shoulder. Outside a voice
was shouting, "Gas!"