The events I have been writing about took place towards the end of May, 1916, and, as I have before stated, we were at this time making huge preparations for the Great Advance. As fortune would have it, moreover, I was, two days after my parting with Edgecumbe, given a job five miles further south, and then life became such a rush, that to make anything like satisfactory inquiries about a missing soldier was absolutely impossible. I imagine that few newspaper readers at home, when they read the first accounts of the battle of the Somme, and noted that we took a few villages and a few thousand prisoners on the first days of the battle, little realized the tremendous preparations which had to be made. So hardly were we kept at it, that oftimes we had scarce time for food or rest.

During the month of June, I received a letter from Lorna Bolivick, in reply to the one I had sent her informing her of my meeting with Paul Edgecumbe. It was so characteristic of her that I will insert it here.

'Now please confess at once,' she wrote, 'that it was because I witnessed your promise to tell me all about him, that you sent that letter, otherwise you wouldn't have thought of writing to a poor silly girl. And wasn't it interesting! I told you he was a wonderful man, and you see how he has paid you already for the little kindness you showed him. Why, in all probability he saved your life! And now I want you to do something else for me; I want you to send me his photograph. I have conjured up a picture of what I think he is like, and I am anxious to see if I am right. Aren't I taking a lot of liberties with you! But you see I like you,—I do really. I fell in love with you when you came to Granitelands with Sir Roger Granville that day. Oh, no, there's nothing romantic about it, I can assure you! But you looked so kind, and trustworthy, and strong, that I took to you from the very first moment. Father tells me I am wrong to take violent likes and dislikes to people at a first meeting; but I can't help it, I am made that way. Of course you are not a bit attractive in the ordinary way. You don't say sharp, clever things, and you don't flatter. Besides, you're old. Now don't be angry. Every girl looks upon a man who is getting on for forty as old. But I am fond of you all the same. There's a sense of security about you; I am sure I could trust you, just the same as I trust my father.

'Send me that photograph of your friend as soon as you can, I am anxious to get it. I am awfully busy here in this hospital, and there are such a lot of wounded men, many of them with a limb shot off. Do you know, I am tremendously interested in a poor Tommy who has lost both his legs. Horrible, isn't it! But he's the most cheerful man in the place, and keeps us laughing all day long.

'He wrote a letter to his mother yesterday, and told her to get him a pair of patent-leather dancing shoes.

'You will be sure to be careful, won't you?—I can't bear the idea of anything happening to you; and although I know you are old enough to be cautious, and not to take foolish risks,—that is, in the ordinary way,—I am sure you are one of those men who forget everything like caution when you are aroused. This is awfully silly, isn't it? so I'll stop. I command you, write me at once, and do as I tell you.

'Yours obediently,

'LORNA BOLIVICK.'

I answered this letter at once. I was in a dug-out at the time, and I remember a lump of mud falling on the writing-pad and making a huge smear, and explaining to her what the smear meant. As it happened, too, I was able to send her Paul Edgecumbe's photograph. It was not a very good one; it had been produced by one of his comrades who was an amateur photographer. But it gave a fair idea of him. I obtained it from him the last evening we were together. I did not tell her that he was missing, even although my fears concerning him were very grave; I thought it better not;—why, I don't know.

At length the great first of July arrived, and it was impossible to think of anything clearly. For days there had been a cannonade such as the world had never witnessed before; the whole countryside shook, the air was thick with shrieking shells, the ground trembled with bursting bombs. Every breath one drew was poison; the acrid smells of high explosives were everywhere. Then, after days of bombardment, which I will not try to describe, for it beggars all the language I ever learnt, the attack commenced.

I have been sitting here trying to conjure up a picture of all I saw that day, trying to find words in order to give some general impression of what took place; but I simply can't. As I look back now, it only seems a combination of a vast mad-house and a vast charnel-house. I have confused memories of bodies of men creeping up behind deadly barrages; I can see shells tearing up great holes in the earth, and scattering mud and stones around them. I can see, too, where trenches were levelled, just as I have seen pits which children make on the seashore levelled by the incoming tide. Now and then there come back to my mind dim, weird pictures of Germans crawling out of their dug-outs, holding up their hands, and piteously crying, 'Kamerad! Kamerad!'

I have recollections, too, of the great awkward tanks toiling along their cumbersome way, smashing down whatever opposed them, and spitting out flame and death on every hand. But I can record nothing. Men talk about the history of this war being written some day; it never will be,—the whole thing is too tremendous, too ghastly.

Personally, there are only a few incidents which I can recall clearly. In the main, the struggle comes back to me as a series of bewildering, chaotic, and incomplete events. Scraps of conversation come back to me, too, and those scraps have neither sequence nor meaning.

'Fricourt taken, is it?'

'Yes, and La Boisselle.'

'No, La Boisselle is not taken.'

'Yes, it is, and Contalmaison too.'

'Nonsense, you fool! that's miles on.'

'The French are doing very well, too. Fritz is having a hot time.
We'll be in Bapaume in no time.' And so on.

My general impression was that our men were doing very well south of the Ancre, up as far as Thiepval, but north of the Ancre we were not so successful. The Germans were putting up a tremendous resistance, and I, unfortunately, was north of the Ancre. I will not give the exact locality, nor the name of the village which was our objective; but this village had been, as we thought, bombarded with such intensity that our work ought to be easy. Our casualties were very heavy, and I shall never forget the heartaches I had when I knew that many of my men whom I had learned to know and to love were lying in nameless graves, torn, battered and unrecognizable, while many more would linger for a few hours in agony, and presently a little mound would cover them, and a little wooden cross would indicate their last resting-place.

I never saw braver men. Even now my heart thrills at the abandon with which they rushed into every kind of danger, not grimly and doggedly, so much, as gaily, and with a laugh. They mocked at danger. I have seen men crossing No Man's Land, with machine-gun bullets flying all round them, stop coolly to light their cigarettes, and then go on again humming a song.

The advance had been in progress some days, at least I think so, but I am not sure,—one day seemed just like another. We had been at it for many hours, I remember, and we were all dead tired. I could see that some of the poor lads were half asleep, and ready to drop, through sheer weariness. We had taken a difficult position, but we were assured before we took it that our success would mean certainty to the accomplishment of the larger plan. Our objective was the taking of a fortified village a little farther on.

Heavy-eyed and heavy-limbed, the boys still stuck to it, and looked eagerly forward towards the accomplishment of their work. It is true our ranks were terribly decimated, but the enemy had suffered far worse than we, and therefore we were confident. Then the news came that we were to be relieved. Fresh battalions had come up to take our places, and we were told that we might get back and rest.

Our boys were disappointed at this, although they were glad of the reprieve.

'Anyhow, we've done our bit,' said one.

'A dirty bit, too,' said another. 'Still, the job's easy now, and a fresh lot of men should take it in a couple of hours.'

'I'd rather go on with it,' said a third. 'I don't see why these other blokes should have the easy job, and we have the hard one.'

'Cheer up, old sport,' said another, 'what do we care who does the job, as long as it's done? We're not here for a picnic.'

And so on, while we retired. How far we went back, I don't know. I have a confused remembrance of the fellows throwing themselves down on the ground, almost sleeping as they fell, and not waiting for the food which was provided for them, while others ate ravenously.

'Anyhow, we've given Fritz a twisting up to-day, and we've left the other blokes a soft job,' were the last words I heard as I dragged my weary legs to the place where I promised myself a good long sleep.

How long I slept I don't know, but it did not seem to me two minutes, although it might have been as many hours.

'The Boches have broken through!' Those were the words that came to my stupefied brain.

'What!' I exclaimed, 'it is impossible!'

'Yes, back at once!'

There was no time to ask questions, no time to argue. The poor fellows who had been fighting so long and bravely were with difficulty roused out of their sleep, and all had to retrace their weary steps towards the positions for which we had fought, and which we had won.

'Why is it? why is it?'—'There must be a mistake!'—'Why, we had got 'em on toast.'—'I tell you, we left 'em nothing but a picnic!'

The men were angry, discontented, grumbling, but they went back to their job determined to see it through nevertheless.

After that, I have but a dim recollection of what took place, except that it was grim, hard, stern fighting. The air was sulphurous, the ground hideous with filth, and blood, and dead bodies.

I don't know how it came about, but the Germans were more numerous than we. It was not we who were taking prisoners, but they, and then suddenly I found myself alone, with three Germans before me. One, I remember, had a rag saturated with blood tied round his head. He had a great gash in his cheek, too, and was nearly beaten; but there was the look of a devil in his eye. Had I been a private soldier, I expect I should have been killed without ado, but they called upon me to surrender. I was mad at the idea. What, surrender after we had won the position! Surrender to the men whom we had sworn to conquer! The Army which had set out to make an advance must not surrender!

I was dog-tired, and a bit stupefied; but that was the feeling which possessed me. I remember that a dead German lay in the trench close behind me, and that his rifle had fallen from his nerveless hand. Seizing the rifle by the barrel, I blindly and recklessly attacked them; I had a grim sort of feeling that if I was to die, I would die fighting. I remember, too, that I comforted myself with the thought that no one depended on me, and that I had no near relatives to bemoan my death.

It may be that my position gave me an advantage, otherwise they, being three, must have mastered me easily, although one of them was badly wounded; still, one desperate man can do much. I was thirty-nine years of age, and although not bred a soldier, I was an athlete. I was an old rowing blue, too, and that means good muscles and a strong heart. I weighed only a little over twelve stone, but I had not an ounce of spare flesh, and I was desperate. I had a little advantage in reach, too; I am over six feet in height, and long in limb.

But it was an unequal battle, and I knew they were bearing me down. One of my arms was numb, too; I expect it was from a blow, although I never felt it. I saw the look of murder in their eyes, as little by little they pressed me back. Then a change came.

It seems like a fantastic dream now, and the new-comer appeared to me more like a visitant from another world than tangible flesh and blood. I expect it was because my eyesight was failing me. My strength was gone, and I remember panting for life, while sparks of fire flitted before my eyes. I fell against the side of the trench, and watched the new-comer, who leapt upon two of the Germans, and hurled them from him as though they had been five-year-old children. It seemed to me that I had never seen such a feat of strength. A second later I knew that my antagonists would never fight again, and then my own senses departed.

'It's all right, sir, it's all right! You'll be as fresh as a daisy in a few minutes. There, that's better. You've fought a great fight!'

The voice seemed to stir something within me, and I felt myself in my right mind with a flash. Moreover, he had taken me to a place of comparative safety.

'Edgecumbe!' I cried, 'how in Heaven's name——!

'I've turned up like a bad penny, sir, haven't I? I was just in the nick of time, too.'

'This is twice you've saved my life,' I said.

'That's nothing,' was his reply. 'I have found more than life.'

I looked at him curiously. His clothes were torn and caked with mud; here and there I saw they were soaked with blood. His face looked haggard and drawn, too, but in his eyes was such a look as I had never seen before. The old wistfulness and yearning were gone; he no longer had the appearance of a man grieving because he had lost his past. Joy, realization of something wonderful, a great satisfaction, all revealed themselves in his eyes, as he looked at me.

'His memory has come back,' I said to myself.

I did not think of what had become of him on the night I had dined with Springfield and St. Mabyn, that was not worth troubling about. His past had come back, and evidently it was a joyous past, a past which gave all sorts of promises for the future!

'I have great things to tell you!' he cried excitedly.