By this time, one by one, the men began to jump into the trench. As the men arrived, their faces pale and eyes started, we called them by name. They looked up and smiled with relief at seeing us sitting there, side by side. They recognised that the last jump had been made, and for the time being, at any rate, they were safe. We had started through the wood, about one hundred and thirty strong, and barely eighty mustered for the final attack. Some men of C Company appeared, threading their way along the trench. Farther in the wood, the commander, Lieutenant Barton, came up to arrange details for the attack. "You got your new orders in time, then," I remarked. "Just in time. It's hell, isn't it? I've lost heavily already, and we've still got to go over the top." "I've got orders to take half the battalion bombers from you; where are they?" "I would like to keep them; there are not many left, and they are badly broken up--been fighting all night." "All right, you keep them. I'm going to form up between here and that broken tree. Will you form up farther to the left?" "All right. Well, I'll be off; cheer oh! old chap." "Good-bye, Barton. Good luck!" I never saw Barton again! I heard some months afterwards that he fell, riddled with machine-gun bullets whilst leading his men into the subsequent attack. "Pass the word for No. 8 Platoon commander," I ordered, wishing to ascertain if the last platoon had arrived. A young sergeant came up at the double, and saluted. "I am in command, sir." His tone and manner inspired me immensely. Notwithstanding all the danger we had passed through, he seemed to be full of ginger and pride at finding himself in command of the platoon. "Where is Mr. Chislehirst, then?" I asked. "Wounded, sir, in the wood; shot through the chest. The last I saw of him he was giving another wounded man a drink from his water-bottle." "All right; do you understand your orders?" "Yes, sir, quite." "Return to your platoon, and await orders to form up." He saluted and doubled back to his men. I forget his name, but he was a fine fellow, that sergeant; quite cool, and evidently pleased at his new responsibility. So poor old Chislehirst was hit; fine fellow; very young, only about twenty; good company in the mess; reliable in the field. Just like him to give his water-bottle to some one else when he could go no farther. Farman was my only subaltern left. Suddenly he gripped my arm and pointed into the wood: "Look over there. Who are those fellows creeping along that trench?" I looked in the direction he was pointing, and there, to my astonishment, on the very ground just vacated by C Company, about a dozen figures in bluish grey were creeping along a shallow trench. I thought at first they were coming in to surrender; but they made no signs, but were evidently making the best of cover.