“Siege,” said the officer, and gave his number. “We’ve got two six-inch Hows. in the farm.” “Haven’t seen an Infantry General anywhere about?” “No, sir.” “All right. I’ll try down the road.” “Have a drink before you go, sir?” “No, thanks.” They clambered back into the darkness; set off, between the moaning forms, down the road; found a great gloomy gateway. Here, the wounded lay in hundreds. Shapes stood over them; lifted them; loaded them into the shelves of hooded cars. The cars chugged away. Other cars chugged up. . . . They passed through the gateway. “Do you know if General Ballardyce is here?” asked Stark of a big man, chaplain’s cross on his cap. “No, I don’t,” answered the parson. “Who the hell is General Ballardyce?” They searched the farm, gloomy outhouse after gloomy outhouse. Everywhere lay the wounded, brown shapes, moaning and wailing. Finally, they found steps; stumbled down them into an underground cellar. The place looked, smelt, was a charnel house. The reek of it struck Peter like a blow. Reek of blood! Blood everywhere. Bloody forms lying on bloody sacks. Bloody bandages in bloody buckets. A man with bloody hands stooping over bloody flesh. “Let’s get out of this,” rasped Stark. . . . Once more they stood outside the farm, among the chugging cars, the moaning wounded. A form approached them. A voice asked “Are you General Ballardyce?” “I am not,” said Colonel Stark. The form materialized into a pale-faced subaltern, whom Peter recognized. “Aren’t you Rutton of the Chalkshires?” “Yes. Jameson, isn’t it? I say, I wish you could help me. I’ve got all the travelling cookers of the 2nd Infantry Brigade just up the road. And I’ve been ordered to rendezvous with them at Haisnes Church at dawn. . . .” “Haisnes is three miles away from here; and it’s inside the Boche lines, young man,” interrupted Stark. “I know, sir. But I’ve got written orders.” He fumbled inside his coat, produced a message-form. Stark flashed a torch on it. “You see, sir. It’s quite clear. What _am_ I to do, sir?” “Use your common sense, young man. You can’t charge the Boche with your sanguinary kitchens. . . .” An orderly stumbled up; saluted Rutton; said, “The General’s been gone three hours, sir. One of the doctors just remembered him riding up and riding off again.” “What _am_ I to do, sir?” wailed Rutton. But Stark was indulging himself in one real outburst: a frothing torrent of scarlet blasphemy that submerged every gilded head between Saint Omer and the Pylons of Loos. . . . § 4 Men under fire for the first time are not usually frightened.