Only when we were almost there did I
realise that the hedge was the battery.
"We built it," said the officer in charge. "We brought the trees and
saplings and constructed it. Madame did not suspect?"
Madame had not suspected. There were other hedges in the
neighbourhood, and the artificial one had been well contrived. Halfway
through the field the party paused by a curious elevation, flat,
perhaps twenty feet across and circular.
"The cyclone cellar!" some one said. "We will come here during the
return fire."
But one look down the crude steps decided me to brave the return fire
and die in the open. The cave below the flat roof, turf-covered
against the keen eyes of aeroplanes, was full of water. The officers
watched my expression and smiled.
And now we had reached the battery, and eager gunners were tearing
away the trees and shrubbery that covered them. In an incredible space
of time the great grey guns, sinister, potential of death, lay open to
the bright sky. The crews gathered round, each man to his place. The
shell was pushed home, the gunners held the lanyards.
"Open your mouth wide," said the officer in charge, and gave the
signal.
The great steel throats were torn open. The monsters recoiled, as if
aghast at what they had done. Their white smoke curled from the
muzzles.
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