“Thus the second day passed. The Grenadiers were not called upon, but sat in the pit and watched the puppets moving on and off the stage. The Intelligence Officer had the critic’s box and made his notes. The night passed quietly and slowly, the news filtered back that our friends in front had taken all their objectives and that all went well. The morning brought the fateful news that the 4th Battalion was under orders to take over the front line that night, and afterwards to attack. Every one was busy, even the Intelligence Officer, and the passing puppets moved unnoticed. The 4th Battalion prepared to leave the pit and occupy the stage. “The third day passed quickly in preparation. At 4.30 in the afternoon the first platoon stepped on to the wooden pathway and moved up towards the front. The Intelligence Officer started last, with Battalion Headquarters, while the Commanding Officer and Adjutant and orderlies plodded off alone. The sun had set and it was growing dark. That ribbon of wood which led to the unknown had its advantages, for it gave a hard, though slippery, foothold; but, once you stepped upon it, you became its slave. The Path began to assume a sinister character, when ahead you saw it lead into a wood full of bursting shells. Then it took the form of an endless moving staircase, surely leading to destruction. The serpent of men moved into such a wood. The very name it bore was ominous. No one spoke. The Intelligence Officer noticed his throat was very dry. His heart pumped at the scream of each arriving shell. He continued to move forward as in a dream. At intervals he made way for stretcher cases. The flash of the bursting shells disclosed a row of gun-emplacements. Two gunners pinned under an overturned carriage screamed. “Still Battalion Headquarters moved on――out of the wood into the open――away from death to what seemed like security. An odd shell or two burst near the path, while others shrieked their way overhead, dealing death somewhere behind. The mind neglected the latter, focussing all attention on the former. The pathway crossed two streams. By now the darkness was complete. A snorting, sobbing noise came from somewhere in front, succeeded by a splashing sound. The path went by a dark and slimy pool, in which the head and ears of a bogged horse waggled this way and that pathetically. Then all was still. A man’s figure could be dimly seen attempting to cut off the pack saddle before it was buried in the slough. “The wooden track abruptly ended. A white tape feebly glimmered in the dark, hanging loosely between upright iron stakes, rifles driven muzzle down into the sodden soil, and portions of broken branches.