Suddenly the chatter of the sergeant's teeth Stopped. He was angry, too; And he whispered: "Are you game? Get the Maxim gun!" I was conscious of my knocking knees. I saw them staring from the tail of my eye We lifted the gun and clamped it on, With the muzzle at the parapet. "Ready!" he nodded. I turned my head And nearly collapsed with fright. Four of them were standing at my shoulder, The others to the left and right. Then, "Fire!" I shouted, and the gun leaped up With a roar and a spurt of flame. The sergeant gripped the handles while the belt ran through, Never stopping to correct his aim. Fearfully I turned, then jumped to my feet, Forgetting all about the feed. They were running like the wind up a long, steep hill, With the thumb-and-finger man in the lead! And high above the rattle and roar of the gun I heard a despairing yell, As Englishmen, Dutchmen, pikemen, bowmen, The men who were sleeping in the moonlit trench Sat up and rubbed their eyes; And one of them muttered in a drowsy voice, "Wot to blazes is the row, you guys?" The sergeant said: "That 'll do! That 'll do!" But he whispered to me, "Keep mum!" They would n't have believed that the row was all about |