As I was passing one group of wounded, I ran against my doctor friend of the night before. "Busy day for you?" I said. "My word, yes," he replied. "They are coming faster than I can attend to them. I am just off to see P----. He's caught it badly." "Serious?" I asked. "Yes, rather; in the back. He's in the dug-out." And the doctor rushed away. I followed him. P---- was lying there on a stretcher looking ghastly. The doctor was bending over him. Poor old chap. Only that morning he had hooked me out to film the sunken road scenes as full of life and hope as anyone could conceive. Now he was on his back, a broken wreck. In the trenches there were hundreds of cases as bad, or even worse, but they did not affect me. There were far too many for the mind to fully grasp their meaning. But down here in this dark dug-out, twenty feet below the earth, the sombre surroundings only illuminated by a guttering candle in a bottle, I was far more affected. It was natural though, for one always feels things more when some one one knows is concerned. P---- was the first to speak. "Hullo, old man," he said in a husky, low voice. "You've pulled through?" "Yes," I replied. "But 'touchwood'! I'm so sorry. Anyway, you're all right for 'Blighty,'" and to cheer him up I continued in a bantering strain: "You knew how to manage it, eh? Jolly artful, you know." His face lighted up with a wan smile. "Yes, Malins, rather a long 'Blighty,' I'm afraid." Two stretcher-bearers came in at that moment to take him away. With difficulty they got him out of the trench, and grasping his hand I bade him good-bye. "I'm glad you got our boys, Malins. I do so want to see that film," were his last words. "I'll show it to you when I get back to England," I called after him, and then he disappeared. The fighting was now beginning to die down. The remnants of four regiments were coming in. Each section was accumulating in spaces on their own. I realised that the roll-call was about to take place. I filmed them as they staggered forward and dropped down utterly worn out, body and soul. By an almost superhuman effort many of them staggered to their feet again, and formed themselves into an irregular line. In one little space there were just two thin lines--all that was left of a glorious regiment (barely one hundred men). I filmed the scene as it unfolded itself. The sergeant stood there with note-book resting on the end of his rifle, repeatedly putting his pencil through names that were missing. This picture was one of the most wonderful, the most impressive that can be conceived. It ought to be painted and hung in all the picture galleries of the world, in all the schools and public buildings, and our children should be taught to regard it as the standard of man's self-sacrifice.