In the sodden roadway, between the bloodstained chalk, the killers were still at work; ferreting the Beast with bombs, braining him as he crawled from his hole. The place stank of cordite, of blood and the flesh of men. But the three gunners had not been sent out to kill. . . . Peter, scrambling first up the chalk-bank, saw a shattered roadway ahead; caught a glimpse of two gigantic chalk-mounds, of the barrage beyond; heard a terrific explosion overhead; felt a clanging hammer-stroke on his helmet, knew frightful pain at his heart; knew a great darkness—a darkness through which he sank to merciful oblivion. . . . Mucksweat and Finlayson, blown back by the shell, looked at each other for one panting second. Then they scrambled up the bank. Peter had fallen forward on his face, left arm doubled beneath him. There was a great dent as from a hammer in his helmet. They turned him over. He gave no sign of life. Blood oozed from the corner of his mouth. “Is he dead?” asked Mucksweat. Half-a-dozen blood-mad infantrymen surged past. “Dead or alive, we can’t leave him here”—Bombardier Finlayson’s eyes took one quick glance at the chalk mounds, Bombardier Finlayson’s mind took one quick decision. “Can you carry him, Muckie?” “Carry him?”—Mucksweat laughed—“carry ten of him.” “Take him to those dug-outs then. Do you understand? There’ll be some cover there. And wait till I come back.” “What are you going to do, Bombardier?” “Me? I’m going to do his job, of course. What the hell do you think we’re here for—a picnic.” Lips set, eyes resolute, Finlayson set off down the shattered road towards the disappearing infantrymen. Mucksweat bent down; wound his two bare arms round Peter’s body; picked him up like a child; and started for cover. . . . § 5 For an hour and three quarters, “B” battery’s guns had been thudding—steady fire—one round per gun per minute. For an hour and three quarters Cresswell and Charlie Henry had been walking from shelter to quivering shelter—asking always the same question—getting always a different reply. “What’s your range, Sergeant.” “Four seven hundred, sir—Four seven fifty, sir—Four eight hundred, sir.” Sandiland, watch at wrist, firing-schedule in hand, stood at the mouth of the telephone-pit. Every five minutes he called across to his subalterns, “What are you at now?” referred their answers to the paper in his hand; ticked off the ranges. There was no excitement at the battery; and, for the moment, no danger. Work proceeded automatically.