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 at once!” he ordered. “Respirators to be put on. They’re making the hell of a gas attack. It seems to have missed these cellars, but one never knows. Then go and see what’s happening.” Upstairs a confused babel of sound was going on, and upstairs Gerald sprinted after he had seen his men. A strange smell hung about in the summer air; the peculiar stench of chlorine, luckily only mild, made him cough and his eyes smart and finally shut. The water poured out of them as eddies of wind made the gas stronger, and for a time he stood there utterly helpless. All around him men grunted and coughed, and lurched about helpless as he was, deprived of sight for the time. He heard odd fragments of conversation: “The front line has broken—gassed out. They’re through in thousands—We’re done for—Let’s go.” And then clear above the shelling, which had now started furiously, he heard a voice which he recognised as belonging to one of the Staff officers of his brigade. “The first man who does go I shoot. Sit down! Keep your pads on, and wait for orders.” 4