Men under fire for the first time are not usually frightened.

Peter, re-walking the muddy road between those wailing wounded, was conscious of no fear. His orders—to find the horses, take them back through Vermelles and rejoin his Colonel at the cross-roads which the map called Corons de Rutoire—seemed simple enough. But he was in a black rage at the incompetence of those behind; and he cursed them as he pashed into the greasy trench, hauled himself out of it, tried to locate that hay-stack.

Damn that hay-stack! Where the devil could it have moved to? He saw the thing suddenly, outlined black against the saffron of a shell-burst; saw the silhouettes of horses rearing at their bridles; dashed forward. As he reached the two men, he heard the whistle of another shell; heard it stop, plop into the ground. No detonation followed.

“By the Lord an’ I’m glad to see you, sir,” ejaculated the shadow of Driver Doherty, “I’ve been thinking we’d be killed every minute.”

“You will be if you don’t hurry up,” snapped Peter, swinging himself straight from the ground to his saddle. “Up you get, both of you.”

Unthinking, he put spurs to Little Willie; set off at a hand-canter; turned in his saddle; saw the Colonel’s groom struggling with the big chestnut. The old ostler had caught his right leg against the unaccustomed rifle-bucket; couldn’t get it across the saddle of his own horse. Jelks was in the act of mounting. Peter wrenched his horse’s head round; galloped back; threw the man somehow into his seat. Another shell whistled over, plopped harmless into the ground. The Colonel’s chestnut reared.

“For God’s sake get a move on,” roared P.J., and slashed the groom’s mount over the croup with his heavy riding-stick. The old man and his two horses shot forward down the track; Peter and Jelks followed at a gallop.

They came unscathed to the road; slowed to a trot, Peter taking the lead. No more shells followed: the road was deserted. They crossed the railway, swung left, arrived suddenly in an empty square. Above them rose the skeleton of a church tower. Peter pulled up; took out his map; flashed torch at it. The grooms joined him.

“You can’t stop here, sir.” A sentry popped up amazingly from nowhere.

“Why not?”

“Road’s being shelled every two minutes. One’s just about....” The whizz-bang gave no warning. Even as Peter flung up his arm to cover his face, he saw it hit the ground ten yards in front, detonate blue in the dust. Little Willie reared straight up; Peter flung himself forward on the horse’s neck; gave him his head. He came down again; stood shivering.

“Anybody hurt?” asked P.J.

“No, sir.”

“Then come on.”

Behind them, they heard shells bursting; in front, the road lay deserted between shattered houses. They trotted past a level crossing; came on confusion beyond belief.

In the inky darkness, men, horses, guns, infantry cookers, cars, motor-cyclists, lorries were fighting their way forward. There was no traffic control, no attempt at order. On the road, at the side of the road, anywhere man or beast could find foothold, feet pashed, wheels rumbled. An enormous pontoon-boat on its low carriage had broken down. Round it, and about it, stood cursing men. There were cries in the darkness: “Who the ’ell’s that? Where are you, mate? Are you the Suffolks?”

Damning and blasting, Peter barged his way through; made the cross-roads. There, just lighting a cigarette, he found Stark.

“Didn’t expect you quite so soon. Fine picnic, isn’t it?” said the Weasel, as the three horsemen dismounted. “Didn’t see anything of the Brigade, did you?”

“No, sir. They’ll have a job getting through.”

“They’re not due yet.”

Peter drew off his gauntlet; looked at his watch; saw the hands pointed to ten o’clock; groped instinctively for his cigar-case; pulled out a weed; bit off the end of it; found his matches; lit up.

“What about General Ballardyce, sir?”

“God knows where he’s got to. You might ask some of these infanteers. The whole place is swarming with them. Don’t be away long.”

Peter plodded off haphazard into the murk; barked his shin against a vehicle. “Who’s that?”

“Cookers. Second Southdown Infantry Brigade,” answered Rutton’s voice. “I say that Colonel of yours is a brick.”

“Oh, to hell with you and your cookers,” said Peter, and plodded on again. He had been sweating: now the perspiration began to dry. Also the black rage was on him again. He heard the jingle of bits in the darkness; somebody shouted “Halt!” A shell, out of sight, crashed to ground. Then somebody called out from his horse, “I say, you with the cigar?”

“Yes,” answered Peter.

“Can you tell me where I am?”

“Who are you?”

“Southdown Yeomanry.”

Peter gave the information; and added, “I should get out of this if I were you. It’s no place for Cavalry.”

Asked the somebody, “Have I your permission to retire, sir?”

And Peter Jameson, Adjutant of the 4th Southdown Brigade, who had as much right to order Yeomanry out of action as Driver Jelks, said—without a quiver in his voice—“You have”; listened, cigar in mouth, to the somebody’s “Walk—March,” to the jingle of bits and the creak of accoutrements; saw the last file of that squadron disappear into the darkness.

“Discipline be sugared,” thought P.J. “A child could see that this isn’t the place for Divisional Cavalry.”

He plodded on, enquiring of all he met: “Have you seen General Ballardyce?” But nobody he met had either seen, heard of, smelt or felt the missing General of the 2nd Southdown Infantry Brigade.