“Cease fire!” says the major, “and register!” Then he turns to Captain Blaikie.

“That’ll settle them for a bit,” he observes.  “By the way, had any more trouble with Minnie?”

“We had Hades from her yesterday,” replies Blaikie, in answer to this extremely personal question.  “She started at a quarter-past five in the morning, and went on till about ten.”

(Perhaps, at this point, it would be as well to introduce Minnie a little more formally.  She is the most unpleasant of her sex, and her full name is Minenwerfer, or German trench-mortar.  She resides, spasmodically, in Unter den Linden.  Her extreme range is about two hundred yards, so she confines her attentions to front-line trenches.  Her modus operandi is to discharge a large cylindrical bomb into the air.  The bomb, which is about fifteen inches long and some eight inches in diameter, describes a leisurely parabola, performing grotesque somersaults on the way, and finally falls with a soft thud into the trench, or against the parapet.  There, after an interval of ten seconds, Minnie’s offspring explodes; and as she contains about thirty pounds of dynamite, no dug-out or parapet can stand against her.)

“Did she do much damage?” inquires the Gunner.

“Killed two men and buried another.  They were in a dug-out.”

The Gunner shakes his head.

“No good taking cover against Minnie,” he says.  “The only way is to come out into the open trench, and dodge her.”

“So we found,” replies Blaikie.  “But they pulled our legs badly the first time.  They started off with three ‘whizz-bangs’”—­a whizz-bang is a particularly offensive form of shell which bursts two or three times over, like a Chinese cracker—­“so we all took cover and lay low.  The consequence was that Minnie was able to send her little contribution along unobserved.  The filthy thing fell short of the trench, and exploded just as we were all getting up again.  It smashed up three or four yards of parapet, and scuppered the three poor chaps I mentioned.”

“Have you located her?”

“Yes.  Just behind that stunted willow, on our left front.  I fancy they bring her along there to do her bit, and then trot her back to billets, out of harm’s way.  She is their two o’clock turn—­two A.M. and two P.M.”

“Two o ’clock turn—­h’m!” says the Gunner major meditatively.  “What about our chipping in with a one-fifty-five turn—­half a dozen H E shells into Minnie’s dressing-room—­eh?  I must think this over.”

“Do!” said Blaikie cordially.  “Minnie is Willie’s Worst Werfer, and the sooner she is put out of action the better for all of us.  To-day, for some reason, she failed to appear, but previous to that she has not failed for five mornings in succession to batter down the same bit of our parapet.”

“Where’s that?” asks the major, getting out a trench-map.