Mixed with his fear, he had a peculiar sort of cunning, which whispered to him to avoid all sentries, because if they saw him he would be sent back to that awful destruction in the front line, and perhaps be killed or maimed. The thought made him shudder, the cold sweat coming out in beads on his face. On his left, in the darkness, he could make out the shadowy forms of trees; crawling on his hands and knees, stopping and crouching with fear at each shell-burst, he finally reached an old orchard, and cowered at the base of a shot-scarred apple-tree. He remained there all night, listening to the sound of the guns and ever praying, praying that his useless life would be spared. As dawn began to break, he could discern little dark objects protruding from the ground all about him. Curiosity mastered his fear and he crawled to one of the objects, and there, in the uncertain light, he read on a little wooden cross: “Pte. H.S. Wheaton, No. 1670, 1st London Regt. R.F. Killed in action, April 25, 1916. R.I.P.” (Rest in Peace). When it dawned on him that he had been hiding all night in a cemetery, his reason seemed to leave him, and a mad desire to be free from it all made him rush madly away, falling over little wooden crosses, smashing some and trampling others under his feet. In his flight, he came to an old French dugout, half caved in, and partially filled with slimy and filthy water. Like a fox being chased by the hounds, he ducked into this hole, and threw himself on a pile of old empty sandbags, wet and mildewed. Then—unconsciousness. On the next day, he came to; far distant voices sounded in his ears. Opening his eyes, in the entrance of the dugout he saw a Corporal and two men with fixed bayonets. The Corporal was addressing him: “Get up, you white-livered blighter! Curse you and the day you ever joined ‘D’ Company, spoiling their fine record! It’ll be you up against the wall, and a good job too. Get a hold of him, men, and if he makes a break, give him the bayonet, and send it home, the cowardly sneak. Come on, you, move, we’ve been looking for you long enough.” Lloyd, trembling and weakened by his long fast, tottered out, assisted by a soldier on each side of him. They took him before the Captain, but could get nothing out of him but: “For God’s sake, sir, don’t have me shot, don’t have me shot!” The Captain, utterly disgusted with him, sent him under escort to Division Headquarters for trial by court-martial, charged with desertion under fire. They shoot deserters in France. During his trial, Lloyd sat as one dazed, and could put nothing forward in his defense, only an occasional “Don’t have me shot!” His sentence was passed: “To be shot at 3:38 o’clock on the morning of May 18, 1916.” This meant that he had only one more day to live.