“Yes, he was perfectly conscious and calm. He told me how to get the men home. He sent best of luck to Evans and you and the S.M. And he made me take a couple of letters from his pocket to send to his wife and mother. He was horribly mangled—right arm and right leg smashed, ribs broken and a great tear in the side of his face. He made me promise to make Evans write home that he was shot through the heart and died instantaneously and painlessly.” “Damn. He was a nice chap. One of the best officers we had.” The inner gas curtain was lifted, and Evans’ servant stumbled in, taking off his mask. “Report at once, fighting order, Winterbourne.” Winterbourne hurriedly put on his boots and puttees, struggled into his equipment, snapped on his mask, and jog-trotted over to the officer’s cellar through the now familiar hail of gas-shells. He was amazed and distressed and ashamed to find how much his flesh instinctively shrank when a shell dropped close at hand, how great an effort he now needed to refrain from ducking or cowering. He raged at himself, called himself coward, poltroon, sissy, anything abusive he could think of. But still his body instinctively shrank. He had passed into the final period of War strain, when even an air-raid became a terror. Evans was laboriously writing. The large cellar looked very cellar-like and empty, with one man in place of the six who had lived there less than a fortnight before. “You know Mr. Thompson’s killed?” “Yes, Sir. Henderson told me.” “I can’t carry on as a Company by myself with less than forty available men.” Evans spoke bitterly. “There’s a chit from Division complaining that we are doing far less work than a month ago. They don’t seem to know there’s been a battle, and that we’re worn out and reduced to a third our strength.” He was silent, re-read his despatch, folded it, and handed it to Winterbourne. “Take this down to Battalion H.Q. I’ve marked it Special Urgency. Make them get the Colonel up if he’s asleep. If he questions you, tell him our position. I haven’t seen him for three weeks. And refuse to leave without an answer.” “Very good, Sir.” “And Winterbourne.” “Sir?” “There’s another chit here somewhere urging us to get two volunteers for Infantry commissions in each Company. Henderson’s going—he’s a stout little tyke. The other volunteers are that filthy cook’s mate and the sanitary man. Idiotic. I won’t recommend them. But I want you to volunteer. Will you?”