The Ten Hundred slept in their lorries at Berquin before moving into billets. No sign of enemy activity presented itself apart from the incessant rumble of distant guns. A Jerry 'plane came over on reconnaissance, taking little precaution and not flying high. They had unpleasant recollections of enemy 'planes, turned their rifles on him, and between C and D Companies brought him down—they took the occupants prisoners.

At five o'clock received orders to move up in the direction of Doulieu in reserve. They dug in with the inadequate implement carried in all equipment, accompanied only by an unnatural quiet. No troops were falling back on them, no hurried retreat or artillery, and no fierce strafing from enemy guns.

Throughout the night they stared far away into the East watching for the enemy who was coming. The silence was still undisturbed, they waited with fast-beating pulse for the long rows of onward, sweeping grey....

Dawn! And with it orders to move forward to Doulieu itself and there fill in the gap.

Almost into the objective before they saw him. Grey-coated forms swarmed for miles in relay upon relay of everincreasing rows, advanced with deadly certainty, and supported by an astonishing mass of machine-guns.

The grim old spirit came to the fore. They rained in on the approaching waves a mad fire from smoking rifles and Lewis guns. His pace slackened not one jot...again the Normans pumped in the lead until the hands blistered from hot rifles. Futile! They had not the men to stop one-tenth of the foe moving in thousands over fields and hedges upon them. Teeth clenched in agony. "Curse you," they sobbed, "curse your numbers...."

His machine-guns whined over into their ranks ten or twelve thousand rounds a minute along the frontage. Men fell in huddled heaps across one another. The machine-gun barrage swept backwards and forwards over the first and second lines, sweeping and intercrossing in one mighty net ... the Normans were ordered to fall back, make liaison with battalion relieving on either flank and dig in on a new line.

Again through the night they watched the pall before them, and again Jerry made no sign. Orders were given just after daybreak for a further retirement...they marched back four or five kilos with heavy hearts. Why not have fought to a standstill where they had first sighted him? They shrugged shoulders wearily, and turned to the task of digging in. He opened his machine-guns upon the thin row of khaki figures, a figure here and there fell forward upon the little spade into a grave he had prepared for himself. Two young Staffords collapsed side by side upon the turf and smiled fixedly up into the sky, six or eight holes perforating each chest.

The bullets whined and whistled everywhere, conveying to the mind a huge swarm of bees. He tried a long sweep of low shots, just skirting the tops of the semi-completed excavations...got home every twenty yards or so, clean through the neck or forehead.

The Normans settled down, opened fire steadily and played havoc amongst the advanced enemy machine-guns. His progress stopped, the opposing lines sniped at each other. The Normans were in their element—they knew how to shoot.

"'Olding 'im up now."

"Yes. 'E can't shoot with 'is rifles."

"No—seems to 'ave all bloomin' machine-guns."

For two hours, they kept him pinned down to one position, wiped out his one brief rush and inspired within him an unholy fear or their rifles. They watched with fierce cunning the movements of fifty or so snipers and "light" machine-gunners creeping upon them under cover of long grasses...a bloody fire was opened for ten minutes on the figures—the grass stained red. Not one returned.

A Battalion on the Norman right fell back under the weight of enemy forces, thereby exposing a Guernsey flank.... Another retirement and again a wild scramble across fields interlaced by row after row of irrigation canals conveying water in this wide net-like system over a large area from one main source of supply. To avoid the larger excavations men were wont to crowd into the roadways, make in a body for ready gateways and openings. Upon these obvious points Jerry concentrated a continuous stream of machine-gun fire; the casualties here were heaped up hideously in small masses and the blood from one man trickled over another.

Troops from half-a-dozen regiments, scattered confusedly in all directions, moved rearwards side by side. It was almost an impossibility to rejoin Battalions—Battalions!—a mere couple of hundred men and a few officers formed what after two days of fighting constituted a Battalion. But they had to DO the work of a full Battalion—and they DID!

Wounded fell despairingly, gazed with appealing eyes at the lines of ever distancing khaki, placed their rifles to one side and awaited the onrushing enemy tide. Some few with what futile strength could be mustered by superhuman effort tottered and staggered uncertainly in the direction they dimly imagined their comrades had taken. One by one fell prey to exhaustion, dropped with a last frenzied sob unto the earth; some lay still and quiet, peppered by a second stream of lead. Others, writhing in agony, dazed, mad, waited the Jerry approach and picked off man after man until a bayonet thrust put finis to their last impotent struggles.

In secluded corners a few bled slowly undiscovered, unthought of ... there for days they remained until the bodies—lockjaw, gangrene, loss of blood—were rolled together into one great hole or perchance buried apart, and for tombstone the late owner's rifle stuck into the earth and inscribed thereon that only too frequent epitath—an unknown British soldier!

Back, ever back! The disheartening realisation that he CANNOT be stayed for any lengthy period, that his reserves are undiminished and constantly moving up to fill the gaps made in his ranks, cast a heavy shadow of pessimism over the ragged, weary figures for ever moving westward. At lengthy intervals no sign of the grey figures anywhere met the eye, but the inevitable order to retreat was obeyed—grumbling, cursing.

"Wot the 'ell are we goin' back again for? There ain't any sign of Jerry."

"No, but 'e 'as got through too far to the south."

"Yes—an' we're moving back north-west now. Why?"

"Dunno. 'E's got round some'ow to the south."

An hour or undisturbed quiet. Nothing could be seen, no shells (his artillery was unable to keep pace with the rapidity of advance), no gas. Then through the silence, from nowhere it seemed, a half-spent bullet whistled and buried itself with a spiteful "phut." After a pause...a whine, accompanied by others, falling short. In the distance his machine-gunners and advanced screen of scouts appeared...the whining merged into a constant buzzing, men coughed furiously and bent forward, fell awkwardly...straightened out. Here and there a khaki figure clutched fiercely at tufts of grass, writhed feverishly in one last desperate fight for breath, looked a sad farewell at their living comrades—a glance that went straight to the heart—and went their way into the warrior's hall in Valhalla.

From far down the flank a further movement rearward could be noticed spreading yard by yard until once more, weary of spirit, worn, hungry, you stood up somewhere in the stream of lead and retired.

At nightfall he would be out of view. By morning his advanced posts would be sniping at the thin khaki line. Night...an ebony pall pierced by a score of brilliant burning houses. Fantastic, grotesque. Crimson glows upon which tired eyes rested unthinking, uncaring, the mind worn under the ceaseless repetition: "When will we stop?", "Why don't they let us fight it out? God, we'd make a mess of him anyhow." Then someone would address no one in particular:

"Wonder 'ow many we 'ave left?"

"Gawd knows. About a 'undred an' fifty."

"See 'im toppling our lads out at Verbequie?"

"Yes. An' by that meadow gate. It makes me blood boil to think they won't let us 'ave a go at 'im."

"Ah, well. I s'pose it will be my turn to-morrow."

That is the crux of it: Your turn to-morrow? Who can tell...what does it matter...what is life after all? But the all-pervading ardour of youth's "Will of Life" whispers with a bitter realisation of what death really means that you WANT to live. Never before has existence been so full of future possibilities, the wish for life so poignant!

His overwhelming numerical superiority gave no evidence of slackening, his pressure on the gaping line of khaki continued unabated. No reserves, or hope of relief, were apparent. There was no alternative but to carry on day after day in continuous fighting retreat with very small numbers spread over a wide area.

Over the fields and meadows roamed farm cattle, some bleeding and running wildly about bellowing with fear. Cows moaned in agony for the dire need of milking, but who was there to do it? In the farms were styes full of half-starved pigs, grunting and groaning with hideous effect. They were turned loose to fend for themselves, ran rampant over the carefully sown ground and growing potatoes—the sad results of months of painstaking effort. Fowls fluttered and screamed with wild flapping wings, men seized the eggs and drank them down in a fierce famished hunger.

Along all the roads for miles streamed a piteous spectacle of old women, children and dogs. Before them a plaintive little barrow of belongings, on the backs of the men small red bundles tied hastily together. Wrinkled old men limped laboriously along on heavy sticks...sometimes by the wayside a white-faced, white-haired old dame sat exhausted, crouching in fear over a poor little bundle; alone, trembling, deserted. The whine of the bullets crept nearer and troops began to pass.

"'Ere, mother, can't you get on?" Not comprehending the words but fully grasping the meaning, the unhappy old head was shaken. A passing ambulance was stopped and the frail old form gently placed in with the wounded—sometimes. There was not always an ambulance. Many a wrinkled, bent old man or woman, shrinking in fear by the roadside, were left in dire desolation to the mercy of their foe.

Some few old folks stood by their homes to the last, until the khaki rows were far across the fields away, and shot whistling about the eaves of the old thatched roof farm...dotted here and there on their grass land a still Britisher kept them company until the Germans passed over and onward, collected the bodies, buried them.

Unshaven, tattered and unwashed, Stumpy, lamed in the left foot, potted shot after shot at each retirement, aiming at no one target, but, as he observed. "Even if I don't 'it 'im, I might puncture 'is bloomin' rum ration."

"But wot are you aimin' at?"

"Nothin'. Just 'igh in the air. Like—that there. Who knows: why it might just ketch ole Kaiser Bill in the bloomin' belly if 'e came up close 'nough."

Uncouth, uncultured, rough of manner, of speech. Good-natured, full of courage, humour. Stumpy...short, fat and clumsy. Withal a man, a warrior. Before mid-day blood was spouting from out five vital wounds and in a few seconds faintness began to spread over him. His eyes filled with tears.

"I feels bad," he said, "can't, can't the bleedin' be stopped? I don't want to go under...think they can get me away before Jerry comes? Things some'ow ain't over clear: everything foggy." Casey came over to him, white-faced and half-crying himself.

"You're orl right, ole pal," he said, "not bleedin' much now."

"No. But it's cloudy. D'you find it cloudy?"

"Yes. A 'ell of a mist creepin' up. Want any water?"

"No, but," with a faint grin, "got any rum?"

"'Ere you," an N.C.O. ran up and touched Casey, "Captain wants a runner. Get a move on."

"But poor ole Stumpy yere——"

"D'you 'ear wot I said. Go on, 'op it, or I'll—well, put lead in yer."

"Orl right. So long, ole pal."

"So long." Stumpy tried hard to see him through the mistiness before his eyes, "but you'll get me away before Jerry comes...." Casualty list two weeks later: "Pte.——. Missing. April 12th". He is still unheard of, forgotten. His grave is undisturbed somewhere in peaceful loneliness.

Estaires and Doulieu were several miles in the enemy lines, the Normans entangled with Staffords and Middlesex converged back past Bleu, moving as far as any one direction could be determined, approximately north-west.

There seemed to be no officers left, few over fifty Royal Guernsey ranks could be counted. Company Headquarters were no more, the scattered few had no means of access to their C.O., joined in and formed fighting blocks with mutual consent and without actual leaders, and carried on the hourly withdrawal. From out this remnant Lance-Corporal Hamel scrambled away to a dressing station, two ominous trickles of blood streaming down his legs. Winter Gregg (M.M.), too, got away in a semi-conscious condition.

One of the few trench mortar shells burst within a yard of a tall youngster. Unscathed, blackened, he turned with a piercing scream.

"God, oh my God! Where is the sun? The light 'as gone out. Someone," his voice rose to a mad shriek, "Someone come 'ere. I can't see. I'm blind, I'm blind, oh I'm blind." He threw himself on the earth and sobbed in fearful agony. They helped him to his feet, led him away, but there echoed back his remorseful wail; "I'm blind, blind!"

That gets you. Blind! Better death....

The hours sped. Men fell with none to replace them, and in the knowledge that the enemy had fresh troops, was well supplied, and in his rear a great artillery straining forward to take part in the slaughter, aeroplanes above, the tail-end of a few decimated Battalions fought on against the hopeless odds before them. As long as a man had life in his body, rifle and shot, he used them to advantage. The next Britisher might be forty yards away or more, but until he was ordered to retire he would..."'ang on like 'ell to that there strip."

The Staffords after three days of it, through the whole of which period they had stuck doggedly, pluckily, to their task, had dwindled down to a scattered few on the nightfall of the 15th April. Forty, perhaps fifty, completely exhausted, filthy and tattered Normans still clung about their C.O. on a frontage a few miles south of Merris. The very mechanical stupor that at last commenced to give way beneath unceasing hardship. Nature demanded sleep. Not the brief, wakeful moments snatched at intervals in the night, but sleep, long, quiet, undisturbed.

From an observation balloon high in the air above its motor trolley Jerry observers reported on the shattered remnant still holding out. He pressed home his advantage upon the tired troops...rifles grew hot. The few Normans were again forced back.

Relief by Australians was effected near Merris. The tiny, devastated string of Normans (53) came out. But in a situation of acute urgency they were still used to construct trenches upon which withdrawal by the newly engaged Divisions could be made.

The Brigadier. G.O.C., 80th Brigade, a few weeks later bade farewell to the little force in a speech that sent a wild thrill of pride throughout the small Battalion.

In their honour the Divisional band played them on their march to a station ("Ebblingham"), from which they entrained for G.H.Q., where they were to take over duties from the H.A.C.

And thus the Passing from the Great Undertaking!

Farewell, Norman warriors who this night in Valhalla sing of mighty deeds of valour from high with the Anses.

Farewell, a sad farewell, to for ever lost echoes to ten hundred voiced raised in rallying chorus to the swing of square shoulders and the ring of manly feet.

The "old order changeth." Away from the strong fray...free life ... laughter, glamour, song...the Great Open...the MEN....

Back to the little world, its little things, to ITS LITTLE LIFE.