PART TWENTY-FIVE

THE LAST OUNCE

§ 1

The “Canadian”—unused to gun-fire—had not slept. Now, in the first glimmer of dawn, he climbed map-in-hand out of the telephone-pit; began to locate his position. Behind, a mere dip in the ground, lay the valley through which he had walked overnight. Close on his left, bulked low shattered walls which he knew to be Montauban. In front, about five hundred yards from the battery, he could make out a ragged fringe of trees—Bernafay Wood. On his right, flat ground rose slightly to a hump near skyline which must be the Briqueterie. On three sides of him, in the valley behind, among the trees in front, and on the flat ground to his right, occasional guns flashed and smoked among the rising mists.

He looked round his own patch of this desolation—the four crazy gun-shelters, the battered trenches, the shell-pocked wire-littered ground; and thought:

“You’re a longish way from home, son.”

A soldier came stumbling towards him, saluted.

“Mr. Jameson’s compliments, sir; and he said I was to find where you were sleeping; and to ask if there was anything I should do for you, sir.”

“Where is Mr. Jameson?”

“Having breakfast, sir”—Driver Garton pointed to a wisp of smoke about fifty yards away—“over there, sir. Should I get you some breakfast, sir?”

“Thanks.” Charles Henry, already accustomed to the English Army’s habit of perpetual valeting, followed Garton to the “Mess”—the same broken chalk-trench, roofed with corrugated, into which he had slithered overnight. From round the traverse came smell of a wood-fire, sizzling of bacon. Peter, astride an ammunition box, mug of tea in front of him, looked up; said:

“Morning, Henry. Not been to bed yet?”

“Good morning. No. Somehow I didn’t feel like turning in. You off to the show?”

“Yes. As soon as I’ve had something to eat.”

Garton brought breakfast—bacon on a tin-plate. Peter made pretence of eating; pushed the plate away from him; lit a cigar; began to cough. Looking at this haggard white-faced man in the torn tunic and patched breeches, Henry thought to himself: “Well, if you ever get to those trenches, it’s a miracle.” What he said was: “Aren’t you going to take a gun—revolver, I should say?”

“Oh, yes.”—Peter laughed. “I’ll be loaded like an ammunition-mule by the time Garton’s finished with me—haversack, gas-helmet, field-glasses, Sam Browne, the whole paraphernalia. Damned heavy. One gets out of the habit of wearing ’em.”

“Do you think the attack will succeed?”

“Hope so. We’ve had about four shies at the sanguinary place already.”

“It’s our own infantry, I suppose.”

“Lord, no. They got smashed up at Delville Wood weeks ago. . . . Well, it’s about time I was off”—Peter got up, took a long iron-shod stick from behind him,—“_au revoir_ and enjoy yourself while I’m away.”

Henry watched him scramble painfully out of the trench, and remembered Sandiland’s words: “An obstinate cove.” “I should say so,” muttered Henry. “I should just about say so.”

§ 2

“You chaps got your rations?”

“Yes, sir.”

Peter looked at his three men: Bombardier Finlayson, tall, tight-lipped, clean-shaven, shrapnel-helmet atilt on the back of his head; Blenkinsop, a dark, keen little Northumbrian; and Mucksweat, huge, hairy, more like a bear than a man, who had volunteered for “runner.”

“Then we’d better be off.”

Dawn was not yet day as the four crossed the track in front of the guns; tramped away towards the wood. They walked slowly, eyes on the black telephone-wire. “Seems O. K., so far,” said Peter, “better test her though.” The Bombardier unslung his telephone-case, inserted pin in the wire, tapped, was answered.

Now the wire rose from ground to poles; spanned a road yellow with mud; disappeared breast-high among tree-trunks. They pashed across; tested again; passed in among the trees; began fighting their way through the undergrowth along the lip of a zig-zag and water-logged trench.

“Lucky we didn’t run her down there, sir,” grinned the Bombardier.

“Damned lucky.” Already Peter felt dog-weary. Twice he stumbled, and Mucksweat helped him to his feet. Then fatigue reacted; the poison of over-strain distilled its poison of over-energy. The apprehension of overnight disappeared. . . .

They worked their way through the wood to the hillside. In front, the world seemed asleep. From behind, came the occasional thud of a gun. A ’plane droned over, high in air. Below them, lay the Bois de Trônes, still black in the half-light: all along the fringe of it, they could see waiting infantry. The wire dipped into a dry trench; they followed it down-hill.

They emerged from the trench—and the wire ended abruptly. “Call up the battery,” ordered Peter. . . . “Battery on, sir.” . . . He took the instrument: “Is Captain Sandiland there? . . . Hello—That you, Sandiland. . . . We’re at the edge of Trônes Wood. . . . All O. K. up to here. . . . What’s that? . . . No good trying to run her any further. . . . Quite. . . . I’ll leave Finlayson here. . . . You’d better send him up a linesman. . . . What’s that? . . . Oh, yes, I’m quite all right. Cheerio.”

“Hadn’t you better leave Blenkinsop, sir,” suggested the Bombardier. “Why?” asked Peter. Finlayson’s lips tightened. “Blenkinsop’s a very good operator, sir.”

“I know that as well as you do, Bombardier. What are you driving at?”

“Well, sir, as N.C.O. of the party. . . .”

“Sportsman!” thought Peter; and reversed an order for the first time. They left Blenkinsop at the instrument; made their way, three helmeted figures, across a road dark with slime and rotted leaves, past the waiting infantry into Trônes Wood. The wood still stank of putrefying flesh. Barbed wire looped the trailing undergrowth. Here a shell-axed tree leaned drunkenly against its bullet-pocked neighbour. There, fresh-turned earth betrayed the scavenging pick. Beyond the tree-trunks, day glimmered. Above, black branches trellised gray sky. A ditch full of water led through this place of death.

Ahead of them, something whistled into the undergrowth. They dropped into the ditch; waded along, single file, calf-deep in liquid mud; ducked under a fallen log; waded on again. Another shell whistled into the undergrowth above them. “Whizz-bang,” said Peter laconically.

Now, they were under open sky; making their way along a battered trench towards the support-lines. In front of them and behind them, hidden by humped earth from the enemy, toiled little parties of infantry: bomb-carriers, water-carriers, men with loaded rifles and men with empty stretchers.

The liquid mud deepened to quagmire.

Peter, fighting his way forward, felt the false energy of over-fatigue ebbing from his veins. With every painful pace, his feet rooted themselves deeper. Sodden leather wrenched at his ankles. Heavy water bottle, heavier revolver-holster, dragged at hip and shoulder. Each gasped breath seemed to tear at his heart. His helmet was a shifting torment. Bitter sweat blinded his eyes; dripped from chin to tie. Time and again, only the long iron-shod stick saved him from collapse. . . .

Gradually they neared destination; edged way past crouching men, past the gap where Lindsay had died, to a little eminence above plain-level. Here three mud-lanes met in heaped breastworks. Listless stretcher-bearers and a bundle of S.O.S. rockets marked Battalion-Headquarters—a German dug-out, thirty feet below ground-level, reached by a deep chute of greasy slime.

Peter sank down on one of the bomb boxes which littered the ground; leaned gasping on his stick.

“Feeling tired, sir?” asked Finlayson; and getting no answer, unslung his water-bottle, drew out the cork. “Try a drop of this, sir. It’s cold tea.”

“Thanks, Bombardier—but you’d better keep it for yourself—I’ll be all right in a minute.”

A little strength came back to him; he slipped off his helmet; loosed belt at waist. A dozen times during the half mile from Trônes Wood, Peter had wanted to give in; the last three hundred yards had been just a blurr of continuous effort. “Like rowing,” he thought, “got to put your last ounce into it”; and like a rowed-out oarsman he rested for a little—knowing only blessed relief.

“Where’s Mucksweat?” he asked at last.

“You told him to stop about 20 yards back, sir. Just round the corner.”

“Quite right. So I did. You’d better go and join him. I’ll observe from there. This place is rather dangerous.” He staggered to his feet; made for the entrance to Headquarters. Finlayson watched him disappear down the greasy mud-chute; shrugged shoulders; rejoined his companions.

“I dunno what you think about it, Muckie,” said Bombardier Finlayson; “but it seems to me we’re in for a hell of a day.”

Answered Mucksweat the ex-coalminer, crouching bear-like in yellow slime, “He shouldn’t have come. That’s what _I_ say.”

§ 3

Peter slid, feet first, into cavernous darkness. A hand gripped him by the shoulder; helped him up. A voice said “Hello. Who are you?”

“Gunner Liaison Officer, sir.”

Darkness cleared to half light. Peter was aware of a man sitting over a map at an uncleanly table.

“Well, if you’d come from the door we might see something of you.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Peter shifted position; found himself in a square cave of concrete. The orderly who had helped him arrive, grinned; proffered an ammunition-box. An R.A.M.C. officer emerged from the gloom; said “Good morning.”

“I dunno what they send you chaps out for”—began the Infantry Colonel, a wiry resolute man, square of chin and square of forehead—“you can’t _do_ anything. How do you propose getting your messages back?”

“Runner to beyond Trônes Wood, sir. Then telephone.”

“Hm. We can do as well as that ourselves. What’s the use of information two hours old? These new creeping barrages are the very devil. No stopping ’em once they start. Where are you going to observe from?”

Peter told him; and they discussed details for ten minutes. The Colonel’s servant brought him tea.

“Have some?” asked the Colonel.

Peter, wet through and shivering, accepted gratefully. Asked the doctor, watching him as he drank: “Do you go over the top with the first attack?”

“He’s supposed to come with me,” interrupted the Colonel. Then to Peter: “You’d rather be on your own I expect.”

“I think so, sir.”

“Right”—the Colonel dabbed a finger at the map—“I shall make for here. Join me if you can. I must be off now. It’ll take me the best part of an hour to go round the front line.” He took his helmet from the wall behind him; gripped a stout stick; and scrambled off up the mud-chute.

“Shouldn’t like your job much,” commented the doctor.

“Shouldn’t like his,” observed Peter; looking at the disappearing soles of the Colonel’s boots. . . .

By now it was nearly nine o’clock. Above, all seemed quiet. Peter finished his tea; said _au revoir_ to the doctor; hauled himself—breast on mud—into the upper air again; found Finlayson and Mucksweat waiting in the narrow mud-floored trench from which he had elected to observe; rested elbows on parapet; peered cautiously over.

Immediately beneath him a smashed railway-line curved northwards, ending in the heap of twisted metal, upcurved like the ribs of a skeleton horse, which had been Guillemont Station. Over the railway, straight to his front, bare ground dipped to green—cut by the narrow brown cleft of our own front line. Beyond this, four hundred yards away, great molehills of white chalk marked the enemy’s position. But between the narrow brown cleft and the white molehills, lay the sunken road which had so often defied assault. At that distance it was hardly visible; showed only as a discolouration on the drab landscape—a discolouration which ended at skyline in the three-cornered bush-clump of Arrowhead Copse. Right of the Copse—our ground—rose the trees of Trônes Wood: left of it, beyond sunk road and white molehills, the enemy’s territory stretched in colourless desert tossed to occasional fountains by long-range shell-fire. Of what had been Guillemont village nothing showed except four tree-tops on the extreme left of the shell-tossed desert. . . .

It still lacked two and a half hours to the time of the attack; and Peter, having shown the ground and explained his plans to the Bombardier and Mucksweat, sat down to wait.

Ten minutes passed—a quarter of an hour—twenty minutes. He looked at his watch, lit a cigar. Half-an-hour went by. Two hours more to wait! A couple of infantrymen appeared, took station beside him. Round the traverse, he could hear other infantrymen coming up. Damn it, would the time never pass? . . . Very high overhead, five Hun machines planed gleaming across gray sky. . . . He began to be afraid. . . . Fear gripped his stomach. . . . He must look over again, make sure of his way to those white molehills. . . . Twenty past ten—a whole miserable hour and forty-three wretched minutes more. . . .

Suddenly, the first enemy shell howled across the sky, burst hollowly at the edge of Trônes Wood.

“Dommned if that one didn’t come from behind us,” ejaculated Mucksweat.

“Pretty well,” said the Bombardier calmly. “Often got ’em that way in the Salient, didn’t you? . . . Course you did. . . . Well, this is a salient too, see!”

“I see,” said the huge hairy man. Even while he spoke, the second shell screamed and lit crashing to the ground behind. Splinters whizzed over them as they crouched to cover.

Barrage fire began—a slow barrage, terrifying in its very deliberateness. Scream followed scream down the unchanging sky; crash followed crash—now right of them, now left, now directly behind. Only their own tiny portion of trench, the sodden mud-walls between which they huddled under whirling splinters, seemed immune—burrow of safety in an exploding world.

“Christ!” thought Peter, “how long can this go on?” For a second, he knew absolute panic; his legs wanted to run away with him; he couldn’t stick it, couldn’t stick it another minute. Came a pause in the crash of sound.

Peter looked at the two infantrymen, crouching white-faced below the parapet; at Finlayson, tight-lipped, apprehensive; at Mucksweat biting his huge moustache. Then, very deliberately, he stood upright; drew field-glasses from case; peered over towards the enemy. One of the infantrymen joined him. “Do you know the ground?” began Peter. . . .

The shell gave no warning. He was aware only of a terrific thunder-clap, of a savage boot-hack at ear-drum. . . . Then blackness, blackness through which he struggled for light. . . . In the slime he struggled, fighting a warm dead thing. . . . The thing lifted from him. . . . Light came back. . . . He felt hands gripping him; heard Mucksweat’s voice.

Face down in the slime, lay the dead body of the infantryman, helmetless, brains oozing—crimson sweet-breads—from shattered skull. Above the body, bent its living mate—the second infantryman. Suddenly, he turned; snarled over his shoulder: “_You_ killed him, damn you. You! You! You! You bastard.”

“Easy on, mate,” cut in the voice of Finlayson, “you’re talking to an officer.”

“Officer. Who the hell cares for ’tillery officers?”—the man rose, sworded rifle gripped in both hands. “Blast you. You killed him. And now you’ll bloody well bury him”—bayonet drew back for the plunge. “Come on, you bloody coward, you. We’re going over the top, you and me—going to bury my mate decent, we are—like a Christian.”

Said Peter, and he spoke as tired men speak in dreams: “Don’t make an ass of yourself, lad.”

Mucksweat’s doubled fist crashed home to chin-point. The madman’s rifle fell clattering across his mate’s body as he toppled backwards.

“Who the devil told you to do that?”—Peter’s voice was again the voice of command—“pick him up, will you?”—the bear stooped over his victim—“take his helmet off.” . . .

But already the infantryman had regained consciousness. “What happened, sir?” he asked: head on the coalminer’s knee. Then he saw the body on the ground; stared at it.

“Oh, Gawd,” he sobbed, “it’s Harry. Poor old Harry.” Swiftly the man rose to his feet; picked up his rifle; started to climb out of the trench. Mucksweat pulled him back. “Let me go,” he howled, “let me go. I’ll give ’em something for this. Christ, I’ll give ’em something they won’t forget.”

They wrestled with him, panting, there in the trench; fought him till the madness passed. Shells screamed and crashed about them as they wrestled; splinters hissed into the slime. But for the moment these four had forgotten shell-fire. . . .

Came a man through the mud, a man who shouted, “Artillery Liaison Officer. Colonel wants the Artillery Liaison Officer.”

Automatically, Peter staggered off round the traverse. A shell screamed down. He fell on his face; heard the splinters whizz over; picked himself up; saw the exploded S. O. S. rockets frizzling red and useless among a knot of crouching stretcher-bearers. Then he was slithering down the mud-chute, slithering to a moment’s safety.

§ 4

Peter stood on his feet; blinked about him in the half-light. The dug-out seemed full of men. At his table, sat the Colonel. Peter walked across to him, saluted.

“You sent for me, sir.”

A shell crashed to ground thirty feet above; rocking the solid concrete. “Anybody hurt?” roared the doctor. A moment’s pause; then, “No, sir,” from the top of the mud-chute.

“Can’t you do anything to stop this?” asked the Colonel. “I’ll lose half of my men before the show starts.”

Peter looked at his wrist-watch; saw that the face of it was caked solid with mud. He wiped away the mud with his sleeve. The hands pointed to eleven o’clock.

“I’m afraid not, sir. There’s no time to get a message back. . . .”

Came voices from above: “Easy on there, mates. Let me get down first. That’s right, now his feet. All right, sir, you’ll be all right in a minute.” Light vanished. Followed the sound of heavy bodies slithering down the mud-chute. Light appeared again. Peter was aware of a huge officer, helmetless, red bandage across his forehead—an officer who staggered to his feet, cursing some one who was trying to assist him. “Damn you,” he cursed, “damn you, I don’t want your help. I’m all right, perfectly all right, I tell you. . . .”

“Of course you are, old chap. Of course you are”—the doctor’s voice sounded perfectly calm—“you come over here with me. We’ll fix you up in a minute. . . .”

“But I told him to keep his helmet on, I told them all to keep their helmets on. . . .”

“Quite right, old chap. Quite right. Now just you sit down for a moment.”

The officer sank down in a gloomy corner of the cave. Doctor bent over him. Delirium ebbed away to vague mutterings. Another shell exploded above.

“You’d better stop here a bit,” said the Colonel.

For a second, Peter Jameson hesitated. Brain, still numb from the shell-kick, conveyed no message to faltering limbs. Then that fine sixth sense which is the inmost core of courage seemed to whisper: “And your men!”

“I think I’d better be getting back, sir,” said Peter. . . .

Pain stabbed at him as he hauled himself up the mud-chute to open air. At the top of the chute, he lay gasping. A stretcher-bearer helped him to his feet. “Thanks.” Peter leaned heavily on his stick. He began to cough; stood there, racking his throat out. . . .

The barrage had shifted to the left; seemed to be slackening. Only every now and then, a near crash shook the ground. Peter stopped coughing. Fear departed from his soul. The brain cleared. He knew himself very weak. But he knew, also, knew definitely, that he was not yet beaten; that enough will-power for the ultimate effort still remained in him.

“The last ounce,” he thought again, “the last absolute ounce,” and started to toil back through the mud. In his absence, riflemen had packed the trench; he edged past them; found his own men.

“How much longer, sir?” asked Finlayson.

“About half-an-hour.”

They waited in silence. All about them, infantrymen were grousing. “Wish we wasn’t in the supports.” “Supports always get it wust.” “Must have had a lot of casualties already.” . . . Five walking wounded, ticketed tunics buttoned over strapped arms, accountrements abandoned, puttees cut away, came toiling towards them through the mud; edged past them; disappeared wordless round the traverse. . . . Shelling increased. . . . Some one on their left cried, “Stretcher-bearers. Hi! Stretcher-bearers.” . . . They saw a body on a stretcher heaved up out of the trench; saw two men bearing it steadily along the open ground behind. . . . More shells came, but the bearers trudged on. . . . A fleet of British ’planes sailed across Trônes Wood, stayed circling above them. . . .

“Ten minutes more,” said Peter Jameson. He looked over the parapet towards the brown cleft below. He turned to his two signallers, repeated his instructions: “I shall make for that shell-hole the moment our barrage starts.”

Again, he took his place at the parapet; glued his eyes to the ground in front.

“Five minutes more,” he called over his shoulder. . . . “Three minutes.” . . . “Two.” . . . “One.” . . .

Finlayson and Mucksweat heard a vast rush as of wings above their heads; saw Peter scramble over the parapet; followed him blind in a mad stumbling run. The three dropped in a panting heap to earth.

“So far, so good,” gasped Peter, extricating his head from Finlayson’s legs. He hauled himself on his elbows up the side of the crater; looked over. A hundred yards in front of him, a row of helmets marked the front line. Beyond these billowed a roaring wall of flame-spangled smoke. Above the wall, red and green rockets soared despairingly. Shells whistled over him towards the wall—a stream of shells—ceaseless. And always the wall billowed higher, blurring the rockets. Now, the helmets rose from the ground, became men—a long line of men who walked slowly towards the flaming wall, lay down at foot of it. Sunk-road, chalk-pits, desert beyond, skyline—everything had disappeared. Peter could see only the wall, the wall and the prone figures at foot of it.

Suddenly, flame died out in the wall: the prone figures rose; flung themselves forward into the smoke. . . . From behind the smoke came the sharp reports of bombs bursting, little whickers of machine-gun fire. . . . The wall thinned, revealing the sunk road, glimmer of chalk-mounds, of shapes struggling with shapes. . . . But beyond the struggling shapes, other shapes moved forward with the moving smoke. . . .

Peter called over his shoulder, “Come on, you chaps, we’ve got ’em.” The three rose to their feet, dashed downhill. As they ran, they were unconscious of everything except the one strong desire to get forward. All about them, from the edges of Trônes Wood, from Arrowhead Copse, other men were running; men moved by that same desire; men equally unconscious, in that one moment of supreme elation, of the enemy barrage that screamed over their heads, plunged to ground in bolts of flame behind them. . . .

Finlayson reached the old front line first; stumbled as he leaped; fell headlong. Peter and Mucksweat, slowing their pace, scrambled deliberately across; helped the Bombardier to his feet. For a second they looked back. “You were right about that shell-hole, sir,” gasped Finlayson. “They’re knocking hell out of the supports.”

“Come on,” said Peter. “They’ll be barraging the sunk road next.” . . .

He set off at a swift walk; scrambled up a bank; dropped down, the pair of them at his heels.

In the sodden roadway, between the bloodstained chalk, the killers were still at work; ferreting the Beast with bombs, braining him as he crawled from his hole. The place stank of cordite, of blood and the flesh of men. But the three gunners had not been sent out to kill. . . . Peter, scrambling first up the chalk-bank, saw a shattered roadway ahead; caught a glimpse of two gigantic chalk-mounds, of the barrage beyond; heard a terrific explosion overhead; felt a clanging hammer-stroke on his helmet, knew frightful pain at his heart; knew a great darkness—a darkness through which he sank to merciful oblivion. . . .

Mucksweat and Finlayson, blown back by the shell, looked at each other for one panting second. Then they scrambled up the bank.

Peter had fallen forward on his face, left arm doubled beneath him. There was a great dent as from a hammer in his helmet. They turned him over. He gave no sign of life. Blood oozed from the corner of his mouth. “Is he dead?” asked Mucksweat.

Half-a-dozen blood-mad infantrymen surged past.

“Dead or alive, we can’t leave him here”—Bombardier Finlayson’s eyes took one quick glance at the chalk mounds, Bombardier Finlayson’s mind took one quick decision. “Can you carry him, Muckie?”

“Carry him?”—Mucksweat laughed—“carry ten of him.”

“Take him to those dug-outs then. Do you understand? There’ll be some cover there. And wait till I come back.”

“What are you going to do, Bombardier?”

“Me? I’m going to do his job, of course. What the hell do you think we’re here for—a picnic.”

Lips set, eyes resolute, Finlayson set off down the shattered road towards the disappearing infantrymen. Mucksweat bent down; wound his two bare arms round Peter’s body; picked him up like a child; and started for cover. . . .

§ 5

For an hour and three quarters, “B” battery’s guns had been thudding—steady fire—one round per gun per minute. For an hour and three quarters Cresswell and Charlie Henry had been walking from shelter to quivering shelter—asking always the same question—getting always a different reply.

“What’s your range, Sergeant.”

“Four seven hundred, sir—Four seven fifty, sir—Four eight hundred, sir.”

Sandiland, watch at wrist, firing-schedule in hand, stood at the mouth of the telephone-pit. Every five minutes he called across to his subalterns, “What are you at now?” referred their answers to the paper in his hand; ticked off the ranges.

There was no excitement at the battery; and, for the moment, no danger. Work proceeded automatically.

Right and left of the battery, in the valleys behind and even among the woods in front, other batteries were firing in the same orderly unhurried manner. The great voice of massed pieces rolled and echoed in continuous thunder to the observers in the sausage-balloons behind them, to the observers in the high-circling ’planes above. Only the makers of that thunder were deaf to it, isolated, cut off by the thudding of their own labours from all other sound. Steadfastly they worked—eye and hands, ears and mind concentrated on the leaping guns.

But Sandiland’s mind was not with his guns!

“Any news?” he called down into the telephone-pit.

“Message just coming through from Headquarters, sir”—a pause—“Have we heard from Mr. Jameson yet?”

“Tell them, No. And get on to Blenkinsop again.”

“Blenkinsop’s on, sir.” Sandiland stepped down into the pit—a square tin-roofed cave scooped from the soil; took the instrument from his telephonist. “Captain Sandiland speaking. Are they still barraging Trônes Wood?”

“Yes, sir. Firing’s very heavy. Five-nines, I think, sir.”

The battery-commander returned to his guns. What could have happened to Peter? Charrington, Liaison Officer on the right, had already reported twice; “B” battery’s signallers had overheard the messages repeated to Headquarters: “Infantry had gone over”: “Infantry were in Guillemont.”

Sandiland tried to put away apprehension. P.J. was no fool. P.J. knew that no message of his could affect the ordered barrage. P.J. would not risk a runner’s life till he had definite information. And yet, Sandiland was afraid. His conscience reproached him. He ought to have made P.J. report sick days ago. If anything happened to P.J. . . . Sandiland wrenched thought back to his guns.

One fifty three? Already, the figures on the range dials marked six thousand yards. In another few minutes, they would reach maximum. “Six one hundred, sir,” called Henry’s voice. “Six one fifty—six two hundred. . . .”

Undoubtedly, something must have happened to P.J.!

“Six two fifty—six three hundred.” Still the guns lifted. . . .

“Bombardier Finlayson on the ’phone, sir.” The battery commander dived to his telephone pit as a rabbit dives to its burrow, seized the instrument.

“Our infantry crossed the Ginchy road at 12:50”—Finlayson’s voice came so distinct over the wire that Sandiland could almost hear the pant in it—“and are pushing on. Patrols are going forward to Lousy Wood.”

Sandiland wrote down and checked back the message; said, “Call up the Adjutant on the other ’phone.” But the instrument at his ear went on.

“Is that Captain Sandiland speaking? This is Bombardier Finlayson, sir. Mr. Jameson was hit just after the infantry went over. I left him with Gunner Mucksweat and went on. . . .”

“Mr. Purves speaking, sir.”

Sandiland said, “Wait, Bombardier,” grabbed the second telephone, repeated Finlayson’s first massage, (“Splendid,” murmured the voice of Purves) “and I want to speak to the Colonel. . . . Thanks. . . . Is that you, sir? . . . Jameson’s been hit . . . I don’t know, sir. . . . I’m to send out another F. O. O. . . . Very good, sir.”

The battery-commander handed back the instrument with a little gesture of disgust. Technically, of course, Revelsworth was right. They _ought_ to send out another F. O. O. Still, it seemed unnecessary risk of a valuable life. Whom should he send? . . . He spoke to Finlayson again. Finlayson had not seen Mr. Jameson since he was hit. Finlayson could not say if Mr. Jameson were alive or dead. Finlayson had obtained his information, come straight back with it. Finlayson, too, was in the right. . . . And the battery-commander thought: “Which is worse? To face danger oneself or send others into it? There’s the very devil of a barrage on Trônes Wood, and the sunk road will be hell. Cresswell’s got a wife and eight kids. Henry’s never been in a show before.”

Then he took a five-franc piece from his pocket; said “Heads Henry. Tails Cresswell”; and spun the coin in the air.

§ 6

The mind of Peter Jameson, emerging slowly from the dark of unconsciousness, was aware of pain. Thought followed; then sight.

He was in a dug-out, lying at the foot of deep steps—atop of which light glimmered. Opposite to him, propped against the wall, sat a wounded officer—a subaltern of infantry. The subaltern, who was smoking a cigarette, said: “Hallo. Thought you were dead.” Then he shouted up the steps: “Hi, you gunner—hi.”

Mucksweat’s voice answered, “Yes, sir. What is it, sir?”

“Your officer isn’t dead. He’s just opened his eyes.”

The huge coal-miner clambered backwards down the steps, bent over Peter; and Peter spoke to him, vaguely, as men speak in delirium: “My water-bottle. Do you understand? My water-bottle”—Mucksweat unslung his own. “No. Not yours. Mine.”

Mucksweat pulled out his clasp-knife—it was impossible to unsling the bottle without moving the man—cut the straps, uncorked, put the aluminium neck to Peter’s lips.

The whisky-and-water—a good tumbler-full of which splashed over his face as he drank—woke Peter to effort. He sat up; looked at his throbbing bandaged arm; asked where he was.

Mucksweat explained: “You remember they chalk-heaps, sir. Well, we’re inside one of them. Bombardier said I was to wait here till he come back. That’s why I was waiting upstairs, sir.”

“Who bandaged this arm of mine?”

“I did, sir.”

“Good lad.” Gradually, Peter’s aching brain pieced the situation together. He could just remember the scramble out of the sunken road, the hammer-clang on his helmet. “Where’s the Bombardier gone to?”

“I dunno, sir. He _said_ he was agoing to do your job.”

“Agoing to do your job.” The words acted like a spur on Peter’s dazed mind. “Do _my_ job”—he echoed—“I’ll see the fellow damned first. Give me a hand, will you?”

Wonderingly, the coal-miner obeyed; and Peter staggered somehow to his feet. The dug-out spun round him; his arm hurt abominably; but he was going to do his job—oh, undoubtedly, he was going to do his job. It lay, the job he was going to do, somewhere up above—up those damned steps—blast the steps—there must be millions of them—and the light atop of them had gone out. . . .

“Better lay him down again,” said the infantry subaltern calmly. “I expect it’s only a faint.”

He lit a cigarette, looked down at his own legs, both broken by machine-gun bullets, thought: “They can’t get us away before dark”; and went to sleep.

Mucksweat, left alone with two unconscious officers, picked up the smouldering cigarette, put it in his mouth, scratched head meditatively—and returned to his watch at the stair-head.

§ 7

A torch, flashing in Peter’s face, recalled him to a moment’s consciousness. A voice asked:

“How are we going to get him up those steps, sir?”

Answered another voice: “Tote him on a blanket if we can find one, Bombardier.”

Said Peter Jameson: “That’s you, isn’t it, Henry?”

“Yes.”

“Well—all I can say is”—the words were hardly audible—“that—it’s—damn—sporting—of—you—to—have—come. . . .”

Then he fainted again: leaving Charles Henry, American Citizen, to puzzle out the exact meaning of the sentence as he had puzzled his way through the barrages on Trônes Wood.