“The worst of indirect fire,” mused the less gifted Ayling, “is that you never can tell whether you have hit your target or not.  In fact, you can’t even tell whether there was a target there to hit.”

“Never mind; we’ll chance it,” replied Ainslie.  “And if the Bosche artillery suddenly wakes up and begins retaliating on the wrong spot with whizz-bangs—­well, we shall know we’ve tickled up somebody, anyhow!  Nine o’clock, you say?”

* * * * *

Here, again, is a bombing party, prepared to steal out under cover of night.  They are in charge of one Simson, recently promoted to Captain, supported by that hoary fire-eater, Sergeant Carfrae.  The party numbers seven all told, the only other member thereof with whom we are personally acquainted being Lance-Corporal M’Snape, the ex-Boy Scout.  Every man wears a broad canvas belt full of pockets:  each pocket contains a bomb.

Simson briefly outlines the situation.  Our fire-trench here runs round the angle of an orchard, which brings it uncomfortably close to the Germans.  The Germans are quite as uncomfortable about the fact as we are—­some of us are rather inclined to overlook this important feature of the case—­and they have run a sap out towards the nearest point of the Orchard Trench (so our aeroplane observers report), in order to supervise our movements more closely.

“It may only be a listening-post,” explains Simson to his bombers, “with one or two men in it.  On the other hand, they may be collecting a party to rush us.  There are some big shell-craters there, and they may be using one of them as a saphead.  Anyhow, our orders are to go out to-night and see.  If we find the sap, with any Germans in it, we are to bomb them out of it, and break up the sap as far as possible.  Advance, and follow me.”

The party steals out.  The night is very still, and a young and inexperienced moon is making a somewhat premature appearance behind the Bosche trenches.  The ground is covered with weedy grass—­disappointed hay—­which makes silent progress a fairly simple matter.  The bombers move forward in extended order searching for the saphead.  Simson, in the centre, pauses occasionally to listen, and his well-drilled line pauses with him.  Sergeant Carfrae calls stertorously upon the left.  Out on the right is young M’Snape, tingling.

They are half-way across now, and the moon is marking time behind a cloud.

Suddenly there steals to the ears of M’Snape—­apparently from the recesses of the earth just in front of him—­a deep, hollow sound, the sound of men talking in some cavernous space.  He stops dead, and signals to his companions to do likewise.  Then he listens again.  Yes, he can distinctly hear guttural voices, and an occasional clink, clink.  The saphead has been reached, and digging operations are in progress.