After a reorganization, we soon were ready to interview the Fritzers again, and before long we were engaged in another scrap that in some respects surpassed even Ypres for its proportion of casualties on a narrow front. Our work this time was to take over a section of the line that was in imminent danger of being broken; few people in these later days ever dream of the nearness of the Allies to absolute defeat in the first months of the war. Now I have something to tell those people, who are forever lauding the deeds of Britain's Allies, and forever forgetting that Tommy Atkins, the British soldier, does a little fighting, too. We hear of the tragedy of Belgium, and God forgive any man who fails to honor that noble little nation; we hear of the soul of France, the Anzacs, the Canadians, but very little is said of the men who quietly, without fuss or advertisement, lay down their lives in this great conflict, the Tommies of Great Britain-- "For he does not advertise, but he wins the day or dies." --------------------------------------------------------------------- [Illustration: TWO TOMMIES TALKING IT OVER.] No doubt the opinions of the soldiers would prove interesting reading. The cumbersome outfit, as shown, is hardly conducive to a pleasant frame of mind, but Tommy is nearly always cheerful. --------------------------------------------------------------------- People who have never felt the breath of war, chat glibly of the nations engaged in the conflict. "Where are the British?" they ask. I'll answer them in a few words. The business of the British soldier is to down Fritz, and he is doing it so well that the newspaper men naturally have grown to expect great things from him, and consequently never mention what seems the perfectly natural thing for a British soldier to do. It was to the aid of a sorely-tried remnant of British Tommies that we were sent. They had suffered, only God and themselves knew how much--but they were holding, and reinforcements were needed badly. As usual, we fell in at dusk. The ordinary banter and repartee flashed backwards and forwards, but it seemed to me a trifle forced. I knew it was in my case, but I had to keep up the bluff that I was not afraid. Male readers may smile at my cowardice, that is, those who have not seen men die in battle. But reason it out, O contemptuous ones. You, perhaps, may be brave. I am not, and in addition I have always had a repugnance for fighting. I am afraid in an ordinary fight, and can always, in imagination, feel the impact of a fist landing with a sickening crunch on my features. Before the war, I have often, only by sheer effort of will, kept myself from fainting at the killing of a hog.