'Look at that!' growled Roy Horan, pointing to a stalwart bluejacket who
had just dropped at his oar as the boat pushed off the beach. 'It's
murder! That's what it is. Sheer murder! Why the blazes can't the ships
turn loose?'
'Because they've got nothing to fire at. You can't chuck away 6-inch
shells on the off chance of killing one sniper. You wait until the Turks
appear in force. Then you'll see what naval guns can do.'
'I don't believe the swine will ever appear in force,' said Roy, who had
lost all his good humour and was looking absolutely savage. 'It breaks me
all up to see our chaps shot down like rabbits without a chance of getting
their own back.'
There was worse to come. From somewhere high up among the scrub-clad
heights came a dull heavy crash, and almost instantly the clear air above
the beach was filled with puffs of gray white smoke which floated like
balls of cotton wool.
'The guns! The beggars have got those guns up,' ran a mutter along the
trench.
'About time for the ships to get to work,' growled Roy, his big handsome
face knitted in a scowl.
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