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Bombay Brown Leather Journal with Tie 6" x 8. Black Lined Canson Journal 7x My Bucket List Journal. She Believed Journal 5 x 7. Black Hardcover Journal 7 X 10". Autumn Moon 7 X 9 Journal. Jeweled Filigree Journal. Leuchtturm Medium Dotted, Copper. Bullet Journal Black Dotted. Leuchtturm, Medium, dotted, Red. Leuchtturm, Medium, ruled, Red. Leuchtturm, Medium, dotted, Black. The sentry on duty guarding the entrance to the war tent came in and reported that there were flares in the sky, quite far away to the east.
The sentry went back to his post and we, inside the tent, went on about our business. Five or ten minutes later a second stick of bombs fell, close enough to whine as they dropped. We all grabbed our helmets and put them on. There was no question but that they had hit nearby. The tent shook from the blast, rocking the lights strung from the ridgepole. The senior officer said he thought we ought to clear the tent and get into the slit trenches outside.
The exit to a CP tent is hard to manage. You have to lift a flap, make a sharp left turn and stumble along a canvas passageway for five or six paces. After the brightness inside the tent, the blackout corridor seems pitch dark.
We started to file out. The third string of bombs fell, high explosive: a long whine and then earthquaking thuds, five or six in a fast series, about five hundred yards away. These flares are right overhead! I was fourth or fifth in line, and while I waited to get out I got scared. The first three strings had frightened me, but not until the few seconds of delay at the exit did my throat and chest tighten up. Finally my turn came.
Halfway out through the exit I could see light from the flares in the sky. That upset me; we had been trained to freeze in our tracks whenever the enemy drops a flare. It seemed to me that the bombers would see me in my ten-yard dash to the slit trench and yet there was no point in standing by the exit. The man behind me was pushing to get out, so I ran for the trench, feeling as though I were in a huge spotlight and sure that the bombers were watching me, personally. One of the planes roared by and at the same time there was a long burst of machine gun-fire. I jumped into the slit trench and hit the ground.
Another string of bombs started to whine down.
The noise they make is like the whistle of an artillery shell but sharper and at least half again as long. It starts high in pitch and slides down the scale, and halfway down you think it has gone far enough, that it will surely go off. But instead it continues to whistle, the sound originating from nowhere in particular but seeming to point right at you. And the longer it whines, the closer it seems to get, until you are sure that when it does explode it will be at the back of your head. I lay face down in the slit trench with the brim of my helmet in the soft ground, as close to the earth as I could get, and held my breath.
That is not the way to lie. It is better to lie on your side, chinstrap unfastened, for protection against blast effect.
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The long whine ended. There was a pause.
Then two or three hundred yards away to my right the cluster of bombs exploded, a heavy rumble of detonation. The sound seemed to blanket an area.
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I recall thinking that it must have destroyed everything in the field where the bombs landed. My chest felt contracted and tight.
I was cold and vaguely dissatisfied with my slit-trench.