Then the Boche retaliated, with canisters and whizz-bangs, and “heavies” for Maple Redoubt; and then our guns joined the concert. It was “hot shop” for half an hour, but at last it died down and there was a great calm. Some of the men were in the trenches for the first time, and had not relished the proceedings overmuch! They were relieved to get the order “Stand down!” There were several things to be done, working-parties to be arranged, final instructions given to a patrol, Lewis gunners to be detailed to rake the German parapet opposite the Matterhorn all night. A platoon sergeant was worried about his sentries; he had not enough men, having had one or two casualties; and I had to lend him men from a more fortunate platoon. It was quite dark, and nearly half-past seven by the time I got back to Trafalgar Square. Edwards had started dinner, as he was on trench duty at eight o’clock. The sergeant-major was on duty until then. Davidson looked in on his way down to Maple Redoubt. “I say, your Stokes were bursting top-hole. We had a splendid view.” “They weren’t going short, were they?” he asked. “No. Just right. The fellows were awfully bucked with it.” “Oh, good. You can’t see a bit from where we are, and the corporal said he thought they were going short. But I’d worked out the range and was firing well over 120, so I carried on. I’m going down to have dinner with O’Brien. I think we’ve done enough to-night.” Then I saw that he was tired out. “Rather a hot shop?” I asked. “Yes,” he said in his casual way. “They were all round us. Well, cheero! I shan’t be up till about ten, I expect, unless there’s anything wanted.” “Cheero!” “It’s no joke firing that gun with the Boche potting at you hard with canisters,” I said to Edwards, as Davidson’s footsteps died away. “He’s the bravest fellow in the regiment,” said Edwards, and we talked of the time when the gun burst in his face as he was firing it, and he told his men that it had been hit by a canister, to prevent their losing confidence in it. I saw him just afterwards: his face was bleeding. It was no joke being Stokes officer; the Germans hated those vicious snapping bolts that spat upon them “One, two, three, four, five,” and always concentrated their fire against his gun. But they had not got him. “No, he’s inside,” I heard Edwards saying. “Bill. Telephone message.” The telephone orderly handed me a pink form. Edwards was outside, just about to go on trench duty. It was eight. I went outside. It was bright moonlight again. Grimly, I thought of last night. “Look here,” I said. “There’s this funeral at nine o’clock. I’ve just got this message. One officer from each company may go. Will you go? I can’t very well go as O.C. Company.” And I handed him the pink form to see.