Peter, fighting his way forward, felt the false energy of over-fatigue ebbing from his veins. With every painful pace, his feet rooted themselves deeper. Sodden leather wrenched at his ankles. Heavy water bottle, heavier revolver-holster, dragged at hip and shoulder. Each gasped breath seemed to tear at his heart. His helmet was a shifting torment. Bitter sweat blinded his eyes; dripped from chin to tie. Time and again, only the long iron-shod stick saved him from collapse. . . . Gradually they neared destination; edged way past crouching men, past the gap where Lindsay had died, to a little eminence above plain-level. Here three mud-lanes met in heaped breastworks. Listless stretcher-bearers and a bundle of S.O.S. rockets marked Battalion-Headquarters—a German dug-out, thirty feet below ground-level, reached by a deep chute of greasy slime. Peter sank down on one of the bomb boxes which littered the ground; leaned gasping on his stick. “Feeling tired, sir?” asked Finlayson; and getting no answer, unslung his water-bottle, drew out the cork. “Try a drop of this, sir. It’s cold tea.” “Thanks, Bombardier—but you’d better keep it for yourself—I’ll be all right in a minute.” A little strength came back to him; he slipped off his helmet; loosed belt at waist. A dozen times during the half mile from Trônes Wood, Peter had wanted to give in; the last three hundred yards had been just a blurr of continuous effort. “Like rowing,” he thought, “got to put your last ounce into it”; and like a rowed-out oarsman he rested for a little—knowing only blessed relief. “Where’s Mucksweat?” he asked at last. “You told him to stop about 20 yards back, sir. Just round the corner.” “Quite right. So I did. You’d better go and join him. I’ll observe from there. This place is rather dangerous.” He staggered to his feet; made for the entrance to Headquarters. Finlayson watched him disappear down the greasy mud-chute; shrugged shoulders; rejoined his companions. “I dunno what you think about it, Muckie,” said Bombardier Finlayson; “but it seems to me we’re in for a hell of a day.” Answered Mucksweat the ex-coalminer, crouching bear-like in yellow slime, “He shouldn’t have come. That’s what _I_ say.” § 3 Peter slid, feet first, into cavernous darkness. A hand gripped him by the shoulder; helped him up. A voice said “Hello. Who are you?” “Gunner Liaison Officer, sir.” Darkness cleared to half light. Peter was aware of a man sitting over a map at an uncleanly table. “Well, if you’d come from the door we might see something of you.” “Sorry, sir.” Peter shifted position; found himself in a square cave of concrete. The orderly who had helped him arrive, grinned; proffered an ammunition-box. An R.A.M.C. officer emerged from the gloom; said “Good morning.”