Sec.2

And amid all this speculation on Helles, there came suddenly a rumour that, so far from the Turks attacking us, our whole line was about to assume the offensive and move forward.  This was a mere angel’s whisper one morning:  by the afternoon it had blown like a dust-drive into every dug-out.

It’s a good rule, my friends who shall fight the next war, if you want to know the secrets about a forthcoming attack, always to ask the padre.  He is the rumour-merchant of the fighting army.  And Monty was no exception.  Directly the strange rumour reached the Eski Line, Monty busied himself tapping every source for more detailed information.

First he inquired of the Battalion Intelligence Officer whether there were anything reliable in this talk of an imminent attack.  Intelligence nodded its head, as much as to say:  “I’ve promised that not a breath of it shall leave my lips, but—­” Well, Intelligence nodded his head.

Then, on another occasion, the Quartermaster, having just returned from Ordnance (where they know everything), looked a profoundly sinister look at Monty, and said: 

“They’re going to keep you busy shortly.”

“What, a show on?” asked Monty hypocritically.

“Yes, some stunt—­some stunt.  But don’t know anything about it.”

Next Monty was at Divisional Signals (always a well-informed and oracular body), who said they supposed he knew there would be very little opportunity for Divine Service on Sunday.

“You mean,” said he, with brutal plainness, “that this beastly attack is fixed for Sunday.”

“Now, nobody said that,” was the reply.  “But take it from us that on Sunday your men will be too busy parading for other purposes than for Divine Service.  Strictly on the Q.T., of course.”

The same day at the Bombing School Monty found but one subject of conversation.

“It’ll be the stickiest thing we’ve had for some time, as ourselves, the Scotties, and the French are all involved in it.  Your people, the East Cheshires, are going over at Fusilier Bluff, after we’ve blown up a huge mine.  Their Brigade Bombers are going to occupy the crater.  But, of course, mum’s the word.”

Lastly, Monty held mysterious communion with my sergeant-major, a wonderful cockney humorist, who possessed the truth on all points.  As far as Fusilier Bluff was concerned, said he, the attack was an effort to reach and destroy the terrible whizz-bang gun.  It was believed that the gun’s location was in a nullah where its dump of ammunition was inaccessible to our artillery.  Only bombers could reach it.  So they were going to blow up a mine of 570 pounds of ammonel, and the bombers, supported by the infantry, were going to rush for the crater.  From the crater they would sally forth and reach the gun.  “And glory be to Gawd,” concluded the sergeant-major piously, “that I ain’t a bomber.”