The battle had
commenced. A sense of relief spread over the General's face. His
suspense was at an end.

Boom! Boom! Boom! went the other guns. More shells, more splinters,
and here and there the moan of a dying or wounded man. But this was
only the preliminary business. In ten minutes every Turkish gun, from
the giant howitzers to the more simple field pieces, were pounding
shrapnel, common shell, and high explosives into the Australasian
lines. There was no excitement; the men were used to the game. They
crouched in holes or hard against the stony sides of the trenches.
Still, the noise was deafening, and the gunners' aim was often good.
Shells burst on the parapets and destroyed them, frequently killing or
burying the men behind. Others burst above and sent their balls of
death into the heads or backs of the crouching men. High explosives
crashed with an unnerving boom in and around the trenches, pounding,
killing, and maiming. Maxims rattled out a hail of lead, rifles
squirted bullets into every corner where a living soul was likely to be
found. There was no romance in this sort of business. It was
butchery, blood, anguish, and death. Hell is the only word that fits
such a bombardment. Those who read such things sit at home in tears
and terror. Yet the men who live through them sit calm, even cool, and
often in smiles.

"Bit hot," said Claud, looking at his hat, which had been pierced by a
shrapnel bullet.

Bill ejaculated something unprintable and dropped a hot piece of shell
he had intended to collar as a curio.

"I weesht I had a hauf o' whisky; this is a dry job," said Sandy, as he
cuddled closer against the side of the trench.

"May ould Allah have mercy on yis when I get yis wid me can-opener!"
muttered Paddy as he fingered his bayonet.

Boom! Boom! Boom! crashed three more shrapnels above them, scattering
lead and iron in all directions. Old keys, brass fittings, nails, iron
knobs and other things tumbled in, too.

"Queer shrapnel--eh?" said Claud, picking up one of these curios--and a
sign that the Turks were surely scarce of the real stuff.

"Don't mind bullets," growled Bill; "but I objects to them chuckin' an
ironmonger's shop at my ole head. It ain't nice----"

Boom! Boom! came two more.

"A miss!" said Sandy, signalling a "wash-out" with a shovel.

Boom! crashed another almost overhead. It was a narrow shave. Sandy,
with that caution of his clan, resigned the post