It proved that we had found the right body. One of our men tried to clear the features with his handkerchief, but ended by spreading the handkerchief over the face. The old chaplain stood beside the body and removed his trench helmet, baring his gray locks to the drizzle of rain that was falling. Then, while we stood by with bowed heads, his voice rose amid the noise of bursting shells, repeating the burial service of the Church of England. I have never been so impressed by anything in my life as by that scene. The dead man was a young captain. He had been married to a lady of Baltimore, just before the outbreak of the war. The philosophy of the British Tommies, and the Canadians and the Australians on the Somme was a remarkable reflection of their fine courage through all that hell. They go about their work, paying no attention to the flying death about them. “If Fritz has a shell with your name and number on it,” said a British Tommy to me one day, “you’re going to get it whether you’re in the front line or seven miles back. If he hasn’t, you’re all right.” Fine fighters, all. And the Scotch kilties, lovingly called by the Germans, “the women from hell,” have the respect of all armies. We saw little of the Poilus, except a few on leave. All the men were self-sacrificing to one another in that big melting pot from which so few ever emerge whole. The only things it is legitimate to steal in the code of the trenches are rum and “fags” (cigarettes). Every other possession is as safe as if it were under a Yale lock. CHAPTER V WOUNDED IN ACTION Our high command apparently meant to make a sure thing of the general assault upon the Regina trench, in which we were to participate. Twice the order to “go over the top” was countermanded. The assault was first planned for October 19th. Then the date was changed to the 20th. Finally, at 12:00 noon, of October 21st, we went. It was the first general assault we had taken part in, and we were in a highly nervous state. I’ll admit that. It seemed almost certain death to start over in broad daylight, yet, as it turned out, the crossing of “No Man’s Land” was accomplished rather more easily than in our night raids. Our battalion was on the extreme right of the line, and that added materially to our difficulties, first by compelling us to advance through mud so deep that some of our men sank to their hips in it and, second, by giving us the hottest little spot in France to hold later. I was in charge of the second “wave” or assault line. This is called the “mopping up” wave, because the business of the men composing it is thoroughly to bomb out a position crossed by the first wave, to capture or kill all of the enemy remaining, and to put the trench in a condition to be defended against a counter attack by reversing the fire steps and throwing up parapets.