Meanwhile we ate again and smoked and summoned what patience we could, endeavouring to snatch a sleep. It wasn’t till ten o’clock that at last we heard wheels,--the gun limbers, cooks’ cart and a G.S. wagon came up with the wagon line officer who had brought the servants back with him. There was no time to deal with them. The officer went down to hook in to the guns and I saw to the secret papers, money, maps and office documents which are the curse of all batteries. The whole business of packing up had to be done in pitch darkness, in all the confusion of the other battery’s vehicles and personnel, to say nothing of the infantry. We didn’t bother about the Hun. Silence reigned. It was not till midnight that the last of the guns was up and the last of the vehicles packed, and then I heard the voice of the Babe calling for me. He crashed up on a white horse in the darkness and said with a sob, “Dickie’s wounded!” “Dickie” was the wagon line subaltern, a second lieutenant who had got the D.S.O. in the Cambrai show, one of the stoutest lads God ever made. In my mind I had been relying on him enormously for the morrow. “Is he bad? Where is he?” “Just behind, sir,” said the Babe. “I don’t know how bad it is.” Dickie came up on a horse. There was blood down the horse’s shoulder and he went lame slightly. “Where is it, Dickie, Old Thing?” His voice came from between his teeth. “A shrapnel bullet through the foot,” he said. “I’m damn sorry Major.” “Let’s have a look.” I flashed a torch on it. The spur was bent into his foot just behind the ankle, broken, the point sticking in. There was no doctor, no stretcher, no means of getting the spur out. “Can you stick it? The wagon is piled mountains high. I can’t shove you on that. Do you think you can hang on till we get down to Flavy?” “I think so,” he said. He had a drink of rum and lit a cigarette and the battery got mounted. I kept him in front with me and we moved off in the dark, the poor little horse, wounded also, stumbling now and again. What that boy must have suffered I don’t know. It was nearly three hours later before the battery got near its destination and all that time he remained in the saddle, lighting one cigarette from another and telling me he was “damn sorry.” I expected him to faint every moment and stood by to grab him as he fell. At last we came to a crossroads at which the battery had to turn off to reach the rendezvous. There was a large casualty clearing station about half a mile on. So I left the battery in charge of the Babe and took Dickie straight on, praying for a sight of lights. The place was in utter darkness when we reached it, the hut doors yawning open, everything empty. They had cleared out! Then round a corner I heard a motor lorry starting up. They told me they were going to Ham. There was a hospital there. So Dickie slid off his horse and was lifted into the lorry.