Some of
our batteries had already been withdrawn to rearward positions not far
from group headquarters and were firing as fast as the guns could be
reloaded. The others were still in their old emplacements a mile or so
farther forward, being shelled terrifically by the Austrian twelve-inch
batteries, but having extraordinary luck. They were using up as much of
their ammunition as they could, because it was becoming clearer every
moment that the Italian transport service was not going to be able to
supply the lorries to move the shells, which were big enough for fifty
of them to make a full lorry-load.
[Sidenote: Lack of motor lorries to move ammunition.]
A major from one of the batteries came into group headquarters while I
was in the mess. He was dark under the eyes after a couple of sleepless
nights, for his men had been working hard all round the clock to get the
ammunition back from the forward dumps, labor that afterward proved
wasted, as there were no lorries forthcoming to carry it farther on.
Sixty twelve-inch shells and one aeroplane bomb a yard away from one of
his four guns was the afternoon's experience of his battery, and only
one man wounded made up the casualty-list for the same period.
"And I'm going to have a damn good dinner to-night whatever happens," he
announced. "Goodness knows when we shall eat or sleep again. So the
fowls and the rabbits we had in the battery are being killed this
afternoon."
[Sidenote: English and French artillery dependent on Italian transport.
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