“Shrapnel. . . . Four six hundred. . . .” roared the voice. . . . “At gun-fire sweep five minutes from your zero lines. . . .” The rest of the orders were howled down by a hurricane of gun crashes. . . . § 7 Beyond the farthest lip of the chalk-saucer; beyond the zig-zag communication trench; beyond the old front-line, cut deep into the chalk, studded with empty gas-cylinders, littered with rifles and the uncleanly débris of war; beyond the lonely tree; beyond the burrow where O’Grady’s telephonist crouched at his instrument; beyond sight and touch and hearing, and every human emotion save that last instinct which is the naked life—lay Second Lieutenant Peabody of the Chalkshires. His brown face was gray in the dust. He had no cap. His outstretched hands were ripped and torn from clutching at rusty wire. His left puttee had fallen in coils over his boot. And where he lay, he panted: as a hound pants after the kill. But Peabody had not been killed. . . . He became aware of bees, swarms and swarms of bees that zipped and buzzed about him. Then he felt a terrific tug at his ankles; felt his face scraping against the ground. Something grabbed him round the neck; pulled him over backwards. He wiped the dust out of his eyes and began to curse. The curses were utterly inhuman. The kind of curses doctors hear at times from perfectly respectable young mothers in milk-fever—foul blasphemies that have their roots in the subconscious dark of sex. The soul of Second Lieutenant Peabody returned to his body. . . . His soul remembered peculiarly little. They had arrived—in Artillery formation—somewhere or other—on a pitch-dark night—occupied some trenches. He had posted sentries—and the sentries had gone to sleep. Everybody _had_ gone to sleep—except himself and Arkwright. Arkwright, by the way, must be dead. Otherwise, why should he think of Arkwright as doubled-up over something or other, with a pair of wire-cutters clutched in his hand. . . . Oh, yes—now he came to think of it, most people were dead—because Slattery had come along and said something about “half-past ten.” Then, they had all got up—with their packs on—they ought to have been told to take their packs off. . . . “’Ave a drop of this, sir?” said a well-known voice at his elbow. “Thanks, Haddock. I think I will,” answered the soul of Second Lieutenant Peabody. The mind came back to the soul. “What the hell happened?” asked the boy. “Whizz-bang. Thought you were gone that time, sir,” answered the dirty little man with the dirty rifle. “’Tain’t no use going hover again, sir. We’ve been hover three times.” “Get me another rifle, you son of a bitch,” said Peabody curtly. Something cracked like a whiplash in the air: he felt a terrible kick on his left ear-drum; collapsed to ground.