And so the South Loamshires, or such as were left of them, came to their objective; the first part of the play was over. The machine-gunner who had enfiladed them passed in his checks, fighting to the end, brained with the butt of a rifle. Occasionally a wounded man crawled into the trench; a German officer sat sullenly in a corner stanching a gaping hole in his leg. Behind them, towards the Essex Trench, the air was now clearer; the bombardment had moved over the line they had won, and thundered down on the German communications. "Runner!" A Company Commander stood shakily trying to patch up a wound in his arm. As far as he could tell from a hasty reconnaissance, he was the senior officer present. "Give this to the C.O.: 'Objectives won. Situation on right doubtful. Estimated casualties two hundred.'" He handed the man a slip of paper. At a steady lope the runner went over the back of the trench, into the barrage of German shrapnel and high explosive. They saw him reach it, stop suddenly, twist round, and slither slowly forward. "Runner down, sir." A sergeant standing by spoke almost casually. "Runner!" Once again the officer called; once again a man went off at a jog-trot. They saw him reach his predecessor; stop a moment and bend down. He looked round and shook his head and went steadily on. The luck of the game--that's all. And it's only when one's sitting still--waiting, that one asks "Why?" Ten minutes later he was with the C.O., waiting for the answer to take back. And so the drama is over; the play has been a success. From the wings the Staff Captain and the Sapper have returned to Brigade Head-quarters. "Saw 'em getting over the top, sir. Then they got into the smoke and we lost 'em. Like a witches' cauldron." "We shan't hear anything for two hours." The General thoughtfully knocked the ashes out of his pipe. They were his men who had gone into that witches' cauldron; with them daily he lived and daily died. Their Dream's End was his too. But--a sense of proportion, always. "We might as well have lunch," he remarked casually. Gradually the bombardment died away, though from time to time the guns burst into sullen mutterings, as though hungry at being baulked of their food. The same old aeroplanes--or different ones--buzzed busily about; the same old stoical balloons looked more rash-like than ever. And then suddenly outside the brigade office there was a stir. A runner had hove in sight, and the signal officer emerged to get his tidings. "Good," he muttered to himself; "the old man will be pleased." He went into the General's dug-out. "Message just through, sir, from C.O. South Loamshires: 'Objectives obtained. A.A.A. Situation on right somewhere obscure. A.A.A. Estimated casualties 200 all ranks. A.A.A. Will be consolidated to-night. A.A.A.'" The "old man" _was_ pleased.