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....