‘Stick it, boys,’ said Pickersdyke after a quick look round. He saw that if he was to continue shooting it would be necessary to stand on the top of the remaining wagon in order to observe his fire. And he was determined to continue. He climbed up and found that the additional four feet or so which he gained in height just enabled him to see the burst of his shells. But he had no protection whatever. ‘Add a hundred, two rounds gun-fire,’ he shouted—and the guns flashed and banged in answer to his call. But it was a question of time only. Miraculously, for almost five minutes he remained where he was, untouched. Then, just as the telephonist reported ‘through’ again the inevitable happened. An invisible hand, so it seemed to Pickersdyke, endowed with the strength of twenty blacksmiths, hit him a smashing blow with a red-hot sledge-hammer on the left shoulder. He collapsed on to the ground behind his wagon with the one word ‘_Hell!_’ And then he fainted.... At 8 P.M. that night the ⸺th Battery received orders to join up with its advanced section and occupy the position permanently. It was after nine when Lorrison, stumbling along a communication trench and beginning to think that he was lost, came upon the remnants of Pickersdyke’s command. They were crouching in one of the gun-pits—a bombardier and three gunners, very cold and very miserable. Two of them were wounded. Lorrison questioned them hastily and learnt that Pickersdyke was at his observing station, that Scupham and the telephonist were with him, and that there were two more wounded men in the next pit. ‘The battery will be here soon,’ said Lorrison cheerily, ‘and you’ll all get fixed up. Meanwhile here’s my flask and some sandwiches.’ ‘Beg pardon, sir,’ said the bombardier, ‘but Mr. Pickersdyke ’ll need that flask. ’E’s pretty bad, sir, I believe.’ Lorrison found Pickersdyke lying wrapped in some blankets which Scupham had fetched from the wagon, twisting from side to side and muttering a confused string of delirious phrases. ‘Fuze two—more _right_ I said—damn them, they’re still advancing—what price the old ⸺th now?...’ and then a groan and he began again. Scupham, in a husky whisper, was trying to soothe him. ‘Lie still for Gawd’s sake and don’t worry yourself,’ he implored. By the time Lorrison had examined the bandages on Pickersdyke’s shoulder and administered morphia (without a supply of which he now never moved) the battery arrived, and with it some stretcher-bearers. Pickersdyke, just before he was carried off, recovered consciousness and recognised Lorrison, who was close beside him.