And all my iron will seemed beating against a wall of steel, that must in the end wear me down in a useless battering. “War,” I cried. “How can my will batter against war?” I thought of Davidson’s smiling face; and then I thought of the blind clumsy canister. And I felt unutterably weak and powerless. What did it matter what I thought or did, whether I was weak or strong? What power had I against this irresistible impersonal machine; this war? And I remembered how an hour or so ago the trench-mortar officer had asked me whether I wanted him to fire or not, and I had answered, “Good God! Do as you d--d well like.” What did it matter what he did? Yet, last night it had seemed to matter everything. Slowly there came into my mind that picture that later has come to mean to me the true expression of war. Only slowly it came now, a half-formed image of what my spirit alone understood. “A certain man drew a bow at a venture,” I thought. What of those shells that I had called down last night at my bidding, standing like a god, intoxicated with power, and crying “Retaliate. More retaliation.” Where did they fall? Were other men lying as Davidson lay to-night? Had I called down death? Had I stricken families? Probably. Nay, more than probably. Certainly. Death. Blind death. That was it. Blind death. And all the time above me was the white moon. I looked at the shadows of my arms as I held them out. Such shadows belonged to summer nights in England ... in Kent.... Oh! why was everything so silent? Could nothing stop this utter folly, this cruel madness, this clumsy death? And then, at last, the strain gave a little, and my muscles relaxed. I went back and took up my helmet. “Dead,” the voice repeated within me. And this time my spirit found utterance: “Damn!” I said. “Oh damn! damn! Damn!” [_Copy_] SPECIAL REPORT--C 1 SECTION (LEFT COMPANY) The mine exploded by us opposite 80 A at 6.30 p.m. last night has exposed about 20 yards of German parapet. A working-party attempting to work there about 12.30 a.m. and again at 2 a.m. was dispersed at once by our rifle and Lewis-gun fire. The parapet has been built up sufficiently to prevent our seeing over it, sand-bags having been put up from inside the trench. Our snipers are closely watching this spot. J. B. P. ADAMS, Lieut. O.C. “B” Coy. 6.30 a.m. 20.3.16. CHAPTER XII OFFICERS’ SERVANTS “Poor devils on sentry,” said Dixon. He shut the door quickly and came over to the fire. Outside was a thick blizzard, and it was biting cold. He sat down on the bed nearest the fire and got warm again. “Look here, Bill, can’t we possibly get any coal?” “We sent a fellow into Bray,” I answered, “but it’s very doubtful if he’ll get any. Anyway we’ll see.”