Winterbourne unslung his rifle and bayonet, and walked in front of Evans. Verey lights went up occasionally, but most mysteriously seemed to come from all sides, behind them as well as in front and to the flanks. The trenches were immensely deep and dark, except when lit dimly by the glow of Verey lights, or the abrupt flashes of whizz-bangs. They went on and on, constantly passing cross-trenches, completely lost, probably returning on their footsteps. They could hear the men muttering and cursing behind them. At another cross-trench they halted in despair. Winterbourne stood on a large hummock in the middle of the wide trench, peering ahead through the gloom. Evans looked at his luminous wrist-watch. “Good Lord! We’ve been wandering in these blasted trenches for nearly three hours. It’ll be too late to do any work unless we get there at once.” Winterbourne grabbed his arm: “Look!” Several shadowy figures were silhouetted against the skyline, coming along the trench towards them. Too dark to distinguish the helmets. English or German? “Challenge them,” whispered Evans. Winterbourne threw his rifle forward: “Halt! Who are you!” “Frontshires,” said a weary voice. “Ask which company.” “Which company?” “A, B, C, D,—what’s left of ’em.” They were now close enough for Evans and Winterbourne to see they were in British uniform. Evans passed down word to his men to stand to the left and let the out-going party pass. The Frontshires staggered rather than walked down the bumpy trench. “We ’ung on until nearly all of us was killed, Sir,” said one man huskily to Evans, as if apologizing. “When the Springshires was wiped out, we got enfiladed, Sir,” said another, “there’s on’y one of our officers left.” About fifty men, the flotsam of the wrecked battalion, stumbled past them. Then came the Sergeant-Major and a young subaltern. Evans stopped him, and asked the way to the front line, explaining briefly their job. The subaltern seemed dazed with weariness. He kept swaying in the darkness. “It’s up there... up there... somewhere....” “But how far?” “I don’t know... not far... I can’t stop... mustn’t leave the men.” And he stumbled on again. Evans turned to Winterbourne. “Well, Winterbourne, you might as well get off the body of that dead Boche you’re standing on, and we’ll push along.” Winterbourne sprang away with a sensation of horror, and saw that he had indeed unconsciously been standing on a dead German. They wandered about until nearly dawn, without finding the Front line. They came on a couple of wounded Germans, whom Evans put into stretchers. Just about dawn they found themselves back at the point where they had entered the old German trenches, and recrossed to familiar ground. The wounded Germans groaned as the stretcher-bearers stumbled and bumped them on the ground. * * * * *