Came voices from above: “Easy on there, mates. Let me get down first. That’s right, now his feet. All right, sir, you’ll be all right in a minute.” Light vanished. Followed the sound of heavy bodies slithering down the mud-chute. Light appeared again. Peter was aware of a huge officer, helmetless, red bandage across his forehead—an officer who staggered to his feet, cursing some one who was trying to assist him. “Damn you,” he cursed, “damn you, I don’t want your help. I’m all right, perfectly all right, I tell you. . . .” “Of course you are, old chap. Of course you are”—the doctor’s voice sounded perfectly calm—“you come over here with me. We’ll fix you up in a minute. . . .” “But I told him to keep his helmet on, I told them all to keep their helmets on. . . .” “Quite right, old chap. Quite right. Now just you sit down for a moment.” The officer sank down in a gloomy corner of the cave. Doctor bent over him. Delirium ebbed away to vague mutterings. Another shell exploded above. “You’d better stop here a bit,” said the Colonel. For a second, Peter Jameson hesitated. Brain, still numb from the shell-kick, conveyed no message to faltering limbs. Then that fine sixth sense which is the inmost core of courage seemed to whisper: “And your men!” “I think I’d better be getting back, sir,” said Peter. . . . Pain stabbed at him as he hauled himself up the mud-chute to open air. At the top of the chute, he lay gasping. A stretcher-bearer helped him to his feet. “Thanks.” Peter leaned heavily on his stick. He began to cough; stood there, racking his throat out. . . . The barrage had shifted to the left; seemed to be slackening. Only every now and then, a near crash shook the ground. Peter stopped coughing. Fear departed from his soul. The brain cleared. He knew himself very weak. But he knew, also, knew definitely, that he was not yet beaten; that enough will-power for the ultimate effort still remained in him. “The last ounce,” he thought again, “the last absolute ounce,” and started to toil back through the mud. In his absence, riflemen had packed the trench; he edged past them; found his own men. “How much longer, sir?” asked Finlayson. “About half-an-hour.” They waited in silence. All about them, infantrymen were grousing. “Wish we wasn’t in the supports.” “Supports always get it wust.” “Must have had a lot of casualties already.” . . . Five walking wounded, ticketed tunics buttoned over strapped arms, accountrements abandoned, puttees cut away, came toiling towards them through the mud; edged past them; disappeared wordless round the traverse. . . . Shelling increased. . . . Some one on their left cried, “Stretcher-bearers. Hi! Stretcher-bearers.” . . . They saw a body on a stretcher heaved up out of the trench; saw two men bearing it steadily along the open ground behind. . . . More shells came, but the bearers trudged on. . . . A fleet of British ’planes sailed across Trônes Wood, stayed circling above them. . . .