Allan arrived, with one of the team carrying two spare drums of ammunition. We pointed out the spot, and he laid his gun on the parapet, with the butt against his shoulder, and his finger on the trigger, and waited. “Flash!” “There he is, sir!” from the sentry. “Drrrrrr-r-r-r” purred the Lewis gun, then stopped. Then again, ending with another jerk. There was a silence. We waited five minutes. “I’ll just empty the magazine, sir.” “Dr-r-r-r-r.” Lance-Corporal Allan took off the drum, and handed it to the other Lewis gunner. Then he handed down the gun, and we talked a few minutes. He was very proud of his gun. After a time I sent him back, and made my way along to “A” Company. There I found Robertson. We talked. A tremendous lot of work had been done, and the big traverse was practically finished. “I’m knocking off now,” said I. It was a quarter to twelve, and I went along with the “Cease work” message. “All right,” said Robertson, “I’m just going to have another look at my wirers. I’ll look in as I go down.” By the time I had reached the top of 76 Street, the trench was full of the clank of the thermos dixies, and the men were drinking hot soup. The pioneers had just brought it up. I stopped and had a taste. It was good stuff. As I turned off down the trench, I heard the Germans start shelling again on our left, but they stopped almost directly. I thought nothing of it at the time. It was just midnight when I reached Trafalgar Square and bumped into Davidson coming round the corner. “I was looking for you,” said he. “You’ve heard about Tommy?” “Yes,” I answered. “But he’s not badly hit, is he?” “Oh, you haven’t heard. He died at eleven o’clock.” Died! My God! this was something new. Briefly, tersely, Davidson told me the details. He had been hit in the mouth while working on the parapet, and had died down at the dressing station. I looked hard at Davidson, as we stood together in the moonlight by the big island traverse at Trafalgar Square. Somehow I felt my body tense; my teeth were pressed together; my eyes did not want to blink. Here was something new. I had seen death often: _it_ was nothing new. But it was the first time it had taken one of us. I wondered what Davidson felt; he knew Thompson much better than I. Yet I knew him well enough--only a day or so ago he had come to our billet in the butcher’s shop, and we had talked of him afterwards--and now--dead---- All this flashed through my brain in a second. Meanwhile Davidson was saying, “Well, I’m just going off for this strafe,” when I heard men running down a trench. “Quick! Stretcher-bearers. The Captain’s hit,” came from someone in a low voice. The stretcher-bearers’ dug-out was just by where we were standing, and immediately I heard a stir inside, and a head looked out from the waterproof sheet that acted as curtain in front of it. “Is it a stretcher-case?” a voice asked.