"Who in hell broke into those hives?" yelled the Major.

No reply; we were busily working and "hadn't time" to answer. The honey
on our hands, coupled with the dust, made a grit that in opening and
closing the breech caused the mechanism to stick, and the honey clinging
to the shells caused the breech chamber to stick, making the shell cases
jam in the gun after being discharged, forcing us to pry open with a
sharp pick the breech each time to extract the empty cartridge. All
during the operation the Major was cursing like a madman at the men,
whoever they were, that brought the bees into the business.

It was my duty to set the sight, and as I did so, each time, the bees
would attack my hands and head, and in trying to attend to the sight and
wipe the bees off at the same time, my work was harder than can well be
imagined; but poor Billy's case was even harder, he had to keep a steady
hold of his range drum with both hands and he couldn't budge to brush
off his attackers, as it was absolutely necessary to hold dead steady to
enable us to do our shooting accurately.

"Grant, for God's sake knock this bee off my neck," he pleaded; "it's
stinging hell out of me"; but every time I made a move to help him, the
Major roared, "Get that angle on, Grant; get your range on, McLean." And
we had to take our medicine. Parker, who was passing shells, was in the
same plight as the rest of us; his hands were covered with the sugary
fluid that had settled between the copper splinters of the driving bands
on the shells and the slivers were slitting his hands. This is a
necessary accompaniment that the men passing the shells into the gun
have to contend with, and ordinarily it is a sore and painful piece of
business, but in conjunction with the swarm of the bees it was simply
hellish.