Something was burning his throat--he opened his eyes, gazed into a man's face close to his. Consciousness came back in a rush. He pushed away the brandy flask that was being pressed against his teeth and struggled to his feet. Strong arms supported him. Several men were round him, looking at him. He was close to a road, and along that road he thought he saw batteries of artillery galloping at full speed. He was not certain of their reality. They passed like phantoms in his vision, wavering up and down. He wanted to do something--to ask something--what was it? He all but fixed the elusive thought--and lost it. His hand felt for the duplicate report-book in his pocket--his desire was connected with that. The report-book had gone. Then a fragment of his intangible preoccupation floated, visible as it were, in his brain. He clutched at it. "What--what guns are those?" he asked thickly. "Divisional artillery--Sixth Division," came the reply. "All right. We got your message." The scout put his hand to his brow and then, dropping it, stared at it stupidly. It was red. "All right," said the voice. "You're hit--but not seriously. Lie down." The scout collected all his faculties in an attempt to bring out one more thought from the obscurity which filled his brain. "What--what time--now?" he asked. "Just one o'clock." The voice appeared to recede to an enormous distance, although he felt the speaker's face close to his. "They're in time--don't worry. Lie down. The ambulances are coming in a minute or two." The scout stood obstinately. "The--the other--machines?" "Bagged 'em both. You came down beautifully--like a kite." The voice sounded from worlds away. The aviator put his hand to his head. "In time!" He breathed the words rather than spoke them. They came like the sigh of a man utterly spent. The man who had been supporting him turned round with a jump and focussed his binoculars on the wooded hill. A crowd of white puffs was breaking out in the air above it. The scout, left unattended, swayed with hands stretched out like a blind man. The field whirled round and round suddenly with a fearful rapidity and then rushed up and struck him. The man with the binoculars ignored his prone body. "Beat 'em on the post!" he shouted in joyous excitement. "By the Lord! Beat 'em on the post!" KULTUR (1915)