Sometimes it was only a querulous whine. Some-
times it was like the hurtling of a great sky-rocket.
Now and then, because of calibre and proximity, it
reminded one of a racing automobile with all its
exhausts open, streaking past within a few feet,
yet unseen because of some obstruction.
And you looked up, expecting to see the source of that hideous sound. Each steel scream, from its whining commencement, through its crashing climax to a series of receding ululations, was a matter of seconds. Something must be outlined up there against the sun. But always there was nothing, and you walked on, wondering how men could dwell perpetually in such a racket, and you were taught immediately that there are irritants for a soldier's nerves infinitely harder to bear.
Rat-tat-tat-tat.
It cut, apparently close at hand, under the curtain roar of cannon fire. Rat-tat-tat-tat for long periods, a momentary cessation, then a recommencement. It suggested a woodpecker, gigantic and restless. It is the sulkiest and the most abominable sound of this war—a perpetual reminder that machine guns can spray more death and wounds than shell fire. You can't be sure of the source or direction of machine gun fire. It may be after a number of targets, including your-
