“Just before I went off altogether, I found out who’d been singing. It was myself! Funny, isn’t it? Fancy crawling round and round on one’s elbows, singing ‘God save the King,’ in the middle of a battle.” “Very funny,” said Peter, sorry for present sickness, but imagination only vaguely stirred by bare recital of the past. “How did you get away?” “Oh, that was where the Weasel got his D.S.O.”[7] Now that he told another’s story, Torrington grew a little more explicit. “He came up, under direct rifle and machine-gun fire, _on his horse_ mark you, as soon as I stopped telephoning. They killed his horse for him, and he got a bullet through his ankle: but he managed to get us both away somehow—he’s as strong as a mule you know. Damned if I understand how he managed it: we only had one leg between the pair of us. . . .” He leaned forward, stretched a hand to the candle: as he blew it out, his pajama slipped from his neck and Peter saw the sullen weal of a bullet-wound on the shrunken shoulder. “Wonder you’ve got the nerve to go into action again,” commented Peter across the darkness. “As a matter of fact, the mere idea of marching up to those gun-pits tomorrow night, scares me to death,” said Torrington, V.C. ----- [4] Battery Commander. [5] Forward observing officer. [6] Machine guns. [7] Distinguished Service Order. § 2 Next morning,—Stark pre-occupied, Peter rather sleepy, Purves and the Doctor swapping jokes with Horrocks the newly-joined veterinary officer (a horsy over-toothed young man in white breeches and enormous spurs)—the Headquarters breakfasted in sunshine at a trestle-table under the vine-leaves: and at half-past ten, rode out across the vast cobbled yard, through the red gates, right-handed towards Hinges, left-handed towards Béthune. Behind them—Mr. Black prancing proudly on a thin chestnut mare, Lodden cursing as usual, Torrington drooping in his saddle, the men smoking at ease—came the horses and carts of the Headquarters Staff, the guns and ammunition waggons of Batteries A and B. “This is hardly the conventional idea of going into action for the first time,” drawled Purves, trotting up beside Peter and the Colonel. The Weasel jerked up red head from the map on his saddle-peak: “What did you expect, young man?” he asked crisply. “Oh, I don’t know, sir. Gun-fire on the skyline, I suppose; and patrols riding forward to scout the way. . . .” “Well, suppose you trot on; and see if the level-crossing’s blocked or not.” “Very good, sir.” “Can’t ride for toffee,” commented the Colonel, as his Orderly Officer clattered forward. They rode on, through clean sunshine, past clean white houses, across the railway lines; emerged on the main road; swung left. Soon they could see the roofs of Béthune in front of them. A long train backed slowly across the road. The column halted. The train went on; likewise the column. Now they were in the outskirts of the town.