Another shell
burst over the straw huts among the palm-trees.
The two Maxim-Nordenfeldt
batteries had come into action. The officers looked at their watches.
It was a quarter-past six. The bombardment had begun.
Explosion followed explosion in quick succession until all four batteries
were busily engaged. The cannonade grew loud and continuous. The rocket
detachment began to fire, and the strange projectiles hissed and screamed
as they left the troughs and jerked erratically towards the zeriba.
In the air above the enclosure shell after shell flashed into existence,
smote the ground with its leaden shower, and dispersed - a mere film -
into the haze and smoke which still hung over the Dervish encampment.
At the very first shot all the dirty-white figures disappeared, bobbing
down into their pits and shelters; but a few solitary horsemen remained
motionless for a while in the middle of the enclosure, watching the effect
of the fire, as if it had no concern with them. The British infantry stood
up on tip-toe to look at the wonderful spectacle of actual war,
and at first every shell was eagerly scrutinised and its probable effect
discussed. But the busy gunners multiplied the projectiles until so many
were alive in the air at once that all criticism was prevented. Gradually
even the strange sight became monotonous. The officers shut up their
glasses. The men began to sit down again. Many of them actually went
to sleep.
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