The “dug-out” towards which Peter and Garton stumbled was a coffin-shaped hole burrowed in the soil, roofed with a piece of corrugated iron and one layer of sandbags. A mackintosh ground-sheet, supported on a wooden beam, prolonged this improvised roof; provided some protection from the rain which drove in at the “door”—a narrow entrance reached by three “steps,” mostly mud. Down these, the pair slithered.

Garton lit a match, revealing Peter’s valise, supported on two ammunition-boxes and a stolen stretcher. The mud-walls of the coffin touched the valise on either side, so that Garton had to scramble over it before he could light “the candles”—one guttering dip stuck on a wooden shelf above the head of the “bedstead.” A pool of slime on the “floor” served for carpet.

“You’d better turn in, Garton,” said Peter, sitting down heavily between the projecting stretcher-handles. “I’m afraid you’ll have to bring me my tea at half-past four. Rather a change from H.Q. at Neuve Eglise, what? Hope your lady friend there still writes to you, Garton?”

The fair-haired Yorkshireman blushed violently; bent to unlace his master’s heavy boots.

“Don’t bother about that, I’ll do ’em myself.”

But Driver Garton went on with his work; and as his muddy fingers fumbled at the muddy laces, he thought: “Poor old P.J.! He won’t last much longer. Never saw a man look so ill in my life.”

“Should I help you off with your breeches, sir?”

“No. I’ll sleep in ’em. For God’s sake get off to bed, lad.”

With a cheery “good-night, sir,” Driver Garton disappeared. His master hauled himself painfully along the valise; sat up—head touching roof; unslung his gas-helmet, which he hung from a wooden-peg driven in the wall; took off his tunic, spread it on the bed; unstudded his soft collar; felt to make sure that the box-respirator was underneath his canvas-pillow; and inserted his body inch by inch into the Jaeger blankets.

“God,” thought Peter, “what a fool I’m making of myself. I ought to have gone sick days ago.” He blew out the candle; laid himself down for sleep; closed his eyes. “Sleep,” he thought, “sleep!” And for a moment, sleep came to him. Then he felt the warning twitch below his heart; started up; groped for his handkerchief. The cough tore at his throat, seemed to be wrenching his lungs out....

Pain passed, leaving him weak and sleepless. He fumbled among the litter on the wooden shelf; found matches; lit the candle again. Number four gun fired; shook a few flakes of soil onto his valise. His whole body ached for sleep; but he was afraid to lie down again. If he lay down, there would come that warning twitch below the heart, another paroxysm....

Listlessly, he pulled his tunic towards him; found the morrow’s orders; began studying them. “Infantry will attack.... Objectives: Guillemont—Ginchy-Maurepas Road—Bois de Leuze.... A/4 S.F.A.B. (‘A’ Battery Fourth Southdown Field Artillery Brigade) will detail Liaison Officer on the right.... B/4 S.F.A.B. will detail Liaison Officer on the left....”

The blurred type danced in front of Peter’s eyes. He stuffed the orders back into his tunic-pocket: doing so, his hand touched Patricia’s last letter. This, too, he read listlessly, hardly taking in the words.... Number four gun fired again.... He closed his eyes.... “Sunflowers—Sunflowers—rather a jolly name.” ... For a moment he dreamed....

“Gas-shell, sir. Gas-shell!” The voice from without wrenched him from unconsciousness.

“Right,” he called back. “All right.” Now he was wide awake, bolt upright on his haunches. Automatically he pulled the respirator from under his pillow; took up the tube; adjusted clip to nostrils, mouthpiece to lips.... Cough wrenched at his throat.... He put the tube down again; sat listening.... “False alarm,” he thought. “Thank goodness for that.” ...

Then he heard, close overhead, a low slow whistle, like a sigh through the night.... Sighing ceased.... Peter jammed the mouthpiece back to his lips, re-adjusted the clip to his nostrils.... Another shell sighed over him; he heard the faint plop of its grounding, the vague hiss of its burst....

The roof quivered; a handful of soil pattered onto his valise.... The candle guttered: went out....

Another shell sighed to ground....

He knew himself afraid—horribly shamelessly afraid. The clip on his nostrils was torture: the mouthpiece stifled him: blood drummed at his ears: he wanted to cough.... But he dared not cough....

The night above him was full of sighing poisonous things.... God, there must be thousands of them.... They were falling all about him: sighing slowly down out of the night: plopping to ground: sighing out their poison.... They were looking for him: tap-tap-tapping round the roof of his coffin.... They wanted to find the roof of his coffin: to break through it; stifle him as he lay....

Courage fought panic—alone in the darkness. “Damn it,” thought Peter, “damn it. They shan’t get my tail down.” And shelling ceased: suddenly, miraculously, the night grew still.

Peter loosed the clips from his nostrils, sniffed cautiously. The air was pure—no trace of gas. He let the mouthpiece fall, began to cough, dropped back coughing on his pillow,—and knew neither fear nor courage, but only the blissful unconsciousness of utter exhaustion till he heard Driver Garton’s “Half-past four, sir. Half-past four. Time to get up, sir.”