“Colonel told me to bring your gas-helmet, sir.” Jelks divested himself of the extra satchel he wore slung from his shoulder; handed it up to his master. “He told me to tell you, sir, with his compliments”—Jelks grinned as the Weasel had grinned when he gave the message—“orders is that both officers and men should take their gas-helmets when they go on leaf.” Peter, rather annoyed at being called over the coals for infraction of an order nobody ever obeyed in those early days, put Little Willie to a trot. They rode, under vague starlight, through La Creche into the main Bailleul-Armentières Road; were challenged at the barrier. As they turned leftwards up the pavé for Neuve Eglise, a mild wind blew across their faces. Passing the low huts of Divisional Baths, a sentry saluted them. “Gas Alert, sir,” he called out. Peter called back, “Thanks.” At the canvas house which hid the naval gun from hostile airmen, another sentry gave the same warning. Peter slackened to a walk; summoned his groom. “We’ll go round by Kortepyp,” he said. “It’s quicker.” “Very good, sir. Turning’s about a hundred yards on.” They found it; veered away from the trees into flat country. Now the wind blew direct in their faces. In front of them, Véry lights glowed skyward, hung and disappeared silently behind the trees. “Devilish quiet,” thought Peter. Not a gun boomed, not a rifle cracked. . . . He seemed to catch the faint sound of a gong; halted hand-to-ear. Again, the gas-gong belled faintly down wind; a distant gunflash winked across the darkness ahead. Then, maniacally, the countryside awoke. Sound swept back, as a wave sweeps, leaping down the valley towards them—horns shrieked, gongs dinned, whistles blew: rifle-fire crackled, burst to a roar: guns boomed dully from beyond the horizon; they caught the far crash of shell-fire. The sky blazed with electric flashes, with whitely-soaring lights, with orange hints of machine-gun flame. Hedges, trees, crest-line, sprang from shadow into silhouette. And suddenly, near and high above the silhouetted valley, soared the crimson rockets of the S.O.S. station on Hill 63; hung a moment; waking pandemonium as they drooped to ground. A mile away among the trees, our own guns awoke, red and roaring; the flames of them cut great gashes against the sky, the voice of them drowned the far crash of shells, the crackle and sputter of rifle-fire. But shrill above the voice of the guns, Peter and Jelks heard the howling shrieking Klaxons. “Gas,” they shrieked, “Gas! Gas! Gas!” “Better dismount, I think,” said Peter calmly. “It’s hardly likely to come as far back as this; but there’s no sense in taking risks.”