Shells of various sizes were sprinkling the landscape impartially-about ten or fifteen in the minute; none very close-a black burst on the brown hill-two white shrapnel puffs five hundred yards on one side-a huge brick-red cloud over the skyline-an angry little high-explosive whizzbang a quarter of a mile down the hill behind.
"Letters from France"
C. E. W. Bean
They were of all sorts mixed-ugly, black, high-explosive shrapnel bursting with the crash of a big shell; little, spiteful whizzbang field gun tearing into the brown earth; 5.9 shells flinging up fountains of it.
"Letters from France"
C. E. W. Bean