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.”