“Yes,” was the reply, and without more ado two stretcher-bearers turned out and ran up 76 Street after the orderly. At that moment there was a thud, and a blazing trail climbed up the sky from the left. “D----,” I muttered. “We must postpone this strafe. Davidson, we’ll fix up later, see? Only no firing now.” As Davidson disappeared to his gun-position, I ran to the telephone. “Trench-mortar officer,” I said. “Quick!” But there is no “quick” about a signaller. He is always there, and methodically, without haste or flurry, he takes down and sends messages. There is no “quickness”; yet there is no delay. If the world outside pulses and rocks under a storm of shells, in the signallers’ dug-out is always a deep-sea calm. So impatiently I watched the operator beat his little tattoo on the buzzer; looked at his face, as the candle-light shone on it, with its ears hidden beneath the receiver-drums, and its head swathed by the band that holds them over the ears. In the corner, the second signaller sat up and peered out of his blanket, and then lay down again. “Zx? Is there an officer there? Hold on a minute, please. The officer’s at the gun, sir; will you speak to the corporal?” “Yes.” I already had the receiver to my ear. “Is that the trench-mortar corporal? Well, go and tell Mr. Macfarlane, will you, to stop firing at once, and not to start again till he hears from Mr. Adams. Right. Right. Thanks.” This last to the signaller as I left the dug-out. “Thud!” and another football blazed through the sky. Macfarlane was the officer in charge of the trench-mortar guns of our sector. I knew him well. Davidson was in charge of the Stokes gun, which is a quick-firing trench-mortar gun. Macfarlane’s shells were known as “footballs,” but as they had a handle attached they looked more like hammers as they slowly curved through the air. We had arranged to “strafe” a certain position in the German support line at five minutes after midnight. But I wanted to stop it before retaliation started. The doctor had gone up the front line, and Robertson would be brought down any minute. Outside I met Brock. He said little, but it was good to have him there. A long while it seemed, waiting. I started up 76 Street. No sooner had I started than I heard footsteps coming down, and to make room I went back. I was preparing to say some cheery word to Robertson, but when I saw him he was lying quite still and unconscious. I stopped the little doctor. “Is he bad, Doc?” “Well, old man, I can hardly say. He’s got a fighting chance,” and he went on. Slowly I heard the stretcher-bearers’ footsteps growing fainter and fainter, and there was silence. Thank God! those footballs had stopped now!