The world-famous attack on Hill 70, when the Guards went over the top, (“By the right,” as the unemotional Pettigrew reported afterwards, “just as if there hadn’t been a Boche within miles of them”) resolved itself for P.J. into a jumble of buzzes, translated to scribbled message-forms, a pile of scribbled message-forms, translated to buzzes. (For by that time, speech on the majority of the sodden lines had become impossible.). . . By late afternoon of the twenty-ninth, when the most incredible occurrence of all took place, Peter—still sitting at the telephone,—was too weary to appreciate it. It had been a baddish day. Fosse Eight seemed by the accuracy of the hostile shell-fire, to have fallen at last. Major Lethbridge reported twelve guns of his sixteen now out of action, the remaining four being pushed up by hand owing to buffer troubles. Third Brigade wires refused to act. They had run out of whisky. A five-nine shell had missed the bomb-store wherein the servants and the orderlies slept by two feet; killing a horse and wounding three men. Murchison slept. The Colonel, just returned from visiting the Infantry Brigadier in his dug-out across the road, had found the Brigadier absent; tripped in a sodden trench; looked like a scare-crow; was swearing like a fish-fag. . . . At which precise moment, “Royalty” appeared in the tunnel! “Royalty,” represented by a jolly fair-haired youngster in a darkish rain-coat, followed the missing Infantry Brigadier past the telephone shelf where Peter sat, into the rear part of the tunnel. Murchison, miraculously awaking, and the Weasel, with his tunic off, stood up and said “Sir.” Peter, who imagined them to be greeting the Brigadier, found a dark-moustached young man beside him. Whispered the dark-moustached young man, taking Peter’s knowledge for granted: “I’d rather be a Tommy in the front line than have to look after _him_. Once the Guards are in the trenches, we can’t keep _him_ away from them. _He_ ran away from G.H.Q. this morning, and _he’s_ insisted on tramping all round the front line. _He_ enjoys it. I don’t! It isn’t right, you know. It really isn’t. _He_ might remember that _he’s_ the heir to the throne. Don’t you think so?” Peter, realizing the jolly fair-haired youngster to be the Prince of Wales, whispered agreement. The conference in rear of the tunnel broke up. “Thank goodness _he’s_ going,” whispered Peter’s companion. “This job will turn my hair gray.”