At the head of the column stands a little red-headed man; Adjutant by his side; round him, his four battery commanders: Torrington, dropping with fatigue; Lodden, very calm, all his irascibility vanished in the presence of crisis; Bromley, twirling brown moustaches; Major Lethbridge, the newcomer, a tiny fat man with a weak mouth and unsteady eyes, fidgeting his riding-switch. “Well, that’s the position,” says the Weasel. “We can’t move forward because we haven’t got guides and God knows where the trench-bridges are. We can’t go back, because Ballardyce has obviously been ordered to attack. Therefore, though we may get it pretty hot if the Boche is still in Fosse Eight tomorrow morning, I intend to stop where I am. There’s an old trench just in front of us; the parados will give us a bit of cover.” “But what about the horses, Colonel?” from Torrington. “They’ll have to stop with the guns till dawn anyway. If the front line gives, we shall be liable to want our teams in a hurry. Well, gentlemen, if nobody has anything better to suggest. . . .” A silence. . . . “All right. Jameson, you’d better go with Bromley and mark for the right of the Brigade. Batteries to come up one at a time in column of route. Action left. Get your guns as close to the trench as you can. Usual intervals if possible. Teams to remain with the guns till dawn. Purves. . . .” “Yes, sir.” The Balliol man appears out of the darkness. “Tell H.Q. to walk their horses forward to that hay-stack. See it?” “Yes, sir.” “Unhook the telephone-wagon and the M. O.’s[13] cart. Send your horses a hundred yards to the rear, and report to me when its done. Do you understand?” “Yes, sir.” ----- [13] Medical Officer. § 7 If ever man in a tight corner drew comfort from good work done in the past, it was Weasel Stark as he stood alone that night, and watched this entity of his creating file past him in the darkness. Very quietly they came, team after toiling team, gun after creaking gun, subaltern after subaltern leading his section to their marked position—O’Grady, Archdale, Pettigrew, Straker, Conway, Merrilees, Hall and Hutchinson. One by one the teams were unhooked, led away; one by one the guns swung round, muzzles across the gaping trench. And about each gun, as it dropped into position, men laboured, men very weary of labour, with pick and shovel and sand-bag, making what cover they might against the dawn. And till dawn began, up and down among the labouring men,—the orders he had _anticipated_ received at last—strode the Weasel, rasping across the darkness: “Dig! you blight-hawks. For the Lord’s sake, dig!” PART SIXTEEN ACTION LEFT! § 1 Daylight revealed an irregular line of fifteen field-guns and limbers, weary men piling sandbags round their wheels. Already the sandbags had risen to the gun-axles.