He dashed along the hedge and into the open. Kenneth instinctively followed him, not doubting for a moment what it was that Pariset could not stand. Pariset, with Kenneth close at his heels, made straight for the nearest trench, heedless of the shot and shell whistling, singing, crashing around them. They flung themselves into the trench, and Kenneth, without understanding how it had happened, found himself leaning forward, rifle in hand, listening to a droning monotone from Pariset a yard to the left of him. "Mark your man.... Don’t be in a hurry.... Keep your head as low as possible.... You’ll soon get used to the noise." It was a minute or two before Kenneth realised that the rifle had been thrust into his hand for use. Looking over the parapet of the trench he was still confused and bewildered. Pariset expected him to fire, but where was the enemy? He saw the long grass waving in the breeze, a few scattered trees in the field beyond, wisps and cloudlets of smoke--and then, as the range of his vision increased, in the far distance a bluish-grey mass rolling like a billow towards him. At last he understood. That bluish-grey mass was the enemy. It represented brute force, broken faith, merciless tyranny. It was the devastating flood which these brave soldiers about him were giving their lives to check. Presently he distinguished individuals in the mass. "Mark your man!" The words, coolly spoken by Pariset on his left, set his imagination on fire. It was his privilege to have a share in their fight for freedom. He laid the rifle to his shoulder, marked his man along the sight, and a touch of his finger sped a bullet on its way. For the next half-hour Kenneth lost account of everything but the task so suddenly thrust upon him. The deafening din of bursting shells and rifle fire, the quick silent activity of the ambulance bearers, the shouts and groans of men, were unnoticed by him in his constant preoccupation. He learnt afterwards how the Germans had pressed on with marvellous passive courage under the hail of lead and shell from the forts and trenches; how the gaps cleft in their close-packed ranks had been instantly filled up, as if men had sprung out of the earth. He fired until the chamber was empty, refilled and fired again, every now and again hearing Pariset’s monotonous cry, "Mark your man!" Presently there was a shrill whistle. Instantly, in the trench on either side of him, the men who had been lying flat sprang to their feet and dashed forward with a joyous shout. He was up and after them, running across the field, with bayonet out-thrust, towards the stalwart men in blue-grey, who had hitherto come nearer and nearer like the irresistible tide. But now he became suddenly conscious that the tide was receding. These stout warriors whom shot and shell had failed to daunt had turned tail at the sight of gleaming steel. Their ranks broke; they wavered, spun round, and fled in panic disorder across the field.