TROUBLE WITH A TRENCH MORTAR

Dominion, Volume 11, Issue 191, 2 May 1918, Page 5

TROUBLE WITH A TRENCH MORTAR

. ♦ HOW IT IS CURED (By "E.G.A.," in the "TJaily Mail") Tho guttering candle on the switch- ' board table, threw a flickering light over tho B.C. pfist dug-out. The operator on duty, seated on an upturned- biscuit tin, the telephone receiver strapped round, his head, was reading. lii' the background, fast asleep on a primitive bed- composed of a 6trip of wire nailed across a wooden framework. ! lay tho indistinct figure of the officer on duly, his head muffled in a balaclava 'helmet. Suspended from a nail hung his gas respirator, ready for immediate nse. > • The gas blanket screening tha entrance ; swished slowly to and fro -in the wind. Suddenly a 6harp staccato buzz soundu from tho switchboard. With a jerk tho operator sits up, glancing mechanically at the watch that ticks away solemnly over his head, and .then, thrusting a plug into one of the little holes that face him, ' , taps an answering call on his koy. ''Dat-dara-dat-dat, datdare-dat-dat,' ' clicks the instrument. i "Hullo! Yes! E.B. speaking," murmurs tho-operator into his receiver. "Is ' that Group? Officer, wanted? One ; minute." Then, turning, ho shouted io j the officer:-"Officer wanted on the 'phone, sir, to speak to tho adjutant." A 6tiflled exclamation, a 6tirring of tho blanket, and a middled 'hand is si retch- ; ed out to grasp tho receiver. "Hullo, yes. Tcs! Officer speaking." •> "Oh, is that you, Johnson ?" comes tho faint metallic-sounding voice. "Sorry lo disturb you at this unearthly hour, , but tho infantry are having a lot of iroublo with a trench mortar, somewhere in thoso houses round 'Bus House cross- ; roads. You might put fifty rounds in. Got that? Eight! Good-night." Dropping tho receiver, the officer shouts ] one word—"Action!" at the telephonist, and then, dashing to tho shooting map on his table, begins to work out his calculations: rango, angle, force of wind, temperature of air, atmospheric pressure—all havo to bo considered. Meanwhile the operator, thrusting two plugs into a counlc of holes marked in ; indelible pencil "Eight Section," is buzz- { ing frantically with his key until Ms call ! is answered. Then—"Right Section, Ac- i Hon! Left Section, Action!" he shouta . i into the receiver. , i Outsido four flashlights are already darting about in the pitch darkness as \ tho Numbers One of the four guns assemble their crows. "Action!" is shouted by a dozen voices, ' and in a couple of minutes the covers ; have been torn off the guns and tho layers ' are squinting through their sights at the four littlo pinpoints of light that havo just sprung into lifo on the aiming posts ; a hundred yards in the rear. A minute's pause, and then a booming voice cuts through tho darkness as the officer, megaphone to his lips, shouts out tho orders: "All guns 40 degrees right, elevation 20 degrees 40 minutes; lyddite, full charge; .twelve rounds giin-fire, j ranid; report when ready,". . ' "Forty degrees right, sir?" chant out ; the layers, checking back the orders, simultaneously twirling the brass wheel that swings the menacing snout; of the great howitzer on to the target. "Lyddite, full charge, load," roar the Numbers One, and two gunners charge up, tho shell tray between thein; tho breech, glistcninc'in oil, is swung open, in. rattles a 2001b. shell, rammed home by four brawny arms, follows a bag of cordite; the broceli is slammed, the lanyard liscd. Then: "Number 1 gun ready, sir." Kings oiil Die n.c.o. to tho ; nflieer. dimlv seen in the background. j "Number's ready. Number .1 ready, Number i ready," follow the other R" nß ' , m . Dead silence for ten seconds. Then; j "Fire!" comes the word. An car-deafening roar, four tongues of (lame, a. ranidly diminishing whistle as ' the four shells rush towards the target,— "Target engaged." reports tho batter-p | to (he adjutant.