The man, however, who does not dislike bombs intensely has yet to be found, and there are few moments so unpleasant as those spent waiting to see who is going to get the benefit of the next one.
If the light is distant and the plane far off, the watchers hear a dull boom or series of crashes—absolutely unmistakable, and never to be confounded with shell explosions. Relief then makes itself felt in various ways, but mainly by an unloosening of tongues, which takes the form amongst the waiting Infantry of an outburst of talking and chaffing, and usually in the case of transport drivers of a torrent of objurgation, directed impartially at their mules, or horses, or (carefully modulated to avoid danger of overhearing) at the Traffic Control, to whom always the whole credit of a traffic block is given.
If, on the other hand, the plane is almost overhead, the next act in the drama is a sibilant rushing sound rapidly increasing in volume, when all in a position to do so throw themselves prone on the ground, or rush for the nearest shelter, however meagre. Then follows an ear-splitting crashing roar, and a furious tornado of air, with or without splinters of bomb, hurls to the ground everything in its immediate neighbourhood. One bomb has dropped, and every one waits anxiously for the next, which may or may not come. If the bomb has expended its force harmlessly in a clear space, men then rise and feel themselves over, surprised to find they are still “all correct” and whole. If, on the other hand, such a bomb has landed in the midst of transport or men, the scene beggars description, fragments of men, wood, iron, and animals being hurled in all directions and to an incredible distance.
Such an instance of the blind fury of war in its very worst form occurred at the Headquarters of the Division
