The rain beat in Peter’s eyes; little Willie stumbled, pulling wet reins through wet gauntlets; recovered himself; jogged on. Peter leaned over; gentled the arched neck. Peering forward, he could just see the huge chestnut’s lifting croup, the Weasel’s bobbing torso. . . . Something came screaming out of the murk; flashed crimson; whistled; pattered to ground. Instinctively, Peter’s knees tightened on the saddle-flaps. Little Willie hunched himself for a gallop; felt steady hand at his mouth; desisted. “Anybody hurt?” called the Colonel. Peter turned in his saddle; saw Jelks wrenching Queen Bess back to the road, a second figure coming up steadily behind. “No, sir. Ten yards to our left.” . . . They rode on. Now they were into Vermelles—a broad street of battered houses. The Colonel slowed to a walk. Came another whistle, followed by the smash of tiles, the clink of falling brick on cobble. “This is damned unpleasant,” thought our Mr. Jameson. He saw Stark bend down, speak to a shadow on the road. They veered left; right again; over a railway-line into a soft road, trees on either side. The rain had almost stopped. Behind them, shells still whistled over the town. Immediately about them, all was quiet. Stark bent from his saddle; flashed a torch at the roadway; inclined right. They jogged on three hundred yards over turf, past a big hay-rick. Stark flashed his torch again: signalled “dismount.” “Sorry,” he said when Peter came up. “Couldn’t risk being blocked on the main-road. That’s the farm. We’ll have to walk the rest.” He pointed to a yellow light; handed reins to his groom—an old man, clean-shaven and bow-legged. “Doherty, you and Jelks will take the horses back to that hay-rick. Let ’em feed. Whatever happens, don’t move from it. You understand?” “Yes, sir.” “Ruddy muck-up all round,” commented the Weasel to his Adjutant as they stumbled down into a greasy trench; lost the light; hauled themselves out; found it again; picked their way through five yards of wire; felt mud and cobbles under their feet; saw the light close in front of them. . . . Suddenly, Peter grew aware of noise. A noise inhuman. The whimper of damned souls. A wail as of wet fingers on an enormous glass: a wail that rose and fell, interminable, unbearable. Suddenly, he was aware whence that wail came. All along the muddy roadway they lay: the wounded: hundreds of them: thousands: brown blanket shapes: some muttering: some moaning: some singing in delirium: some quite still. The agony of it gripped Peter in the stomach. Vomit rushed to his throat; was choked down again. . . . The Colonel stepped over a moaning form; pulled back a sack curtain revealing bare walls, an oil-lamp, three gunner officers eating round a trestle table. “Is this Le Rutoire?” rasped the Weasel. The three officers rose to their feet: “Part of it, sir,” said one, “the rest’s about fifty yards down the road.” “Is General Ballardyce here?” “No, sir.” “Who are you?”