By dawn on Sunday, the 24th, the two regiments of the South Africans were holding a patch of front which, along with Delville Wood, is the most famous spot in all their annals. It lay roughly behind the northern point of Marrières Wood, running north-east in the direction of Rancourt, a little over two miles north-west of Bouchavesnes village. The ground sloped eastward, and then rose again to another ridge about 1,000 yards distant—a ridge which gave the enemy excellent chances for observation and machine-gun positions. There was one good trench and several bad ones, and the whole area was dotted with shell-holes. Dawson took up his headquarters in a support trench some 300 yards in rear of the front line. The strength of the Brigade was about 500 in all, composed of 478 men from the infantry, one section of the 9th Machine Gun Battery, and a few men from Brigade Headquarters. The previous day some officers had joined from the transport lines, and in consequence the number of officers was out of all proportion to the other ranks. The 2nd Regiment, for example, with a strength of 110, had no less than fourteen officers. Dawson’s only means of communication with divisional headquarters was by runners, and he had long lost touch with the divisional artillery. [Illustration: THE FIGHT AT MARRIÈRES WOOD.] The South Africans seemed fated to have their greatest deeds linked always with some broken woodland. So far the proudest names in their record were those wraiths of copses, Delville and Gauche. To them must now be added a third, the splintered desert which had once been the wood of Marrières. It was a weary and broken little company which waited on that hilltop in the fog of dawn. During three days the 500 had fought a score of battles. Giddy with lack of sleep, grey with fatigue, poisoned by gas and tortured by the ceaseless bombardment, officers and men had faced the new perils which each hour brought forth with a fortitude beyond all human praise. But wars are fought with the body as well as with the spirit, and the body was breaking. Since the 20th of March, while the men had received rations, they had had no hot food or tea. Neither they nor their officers had any guess at what was happening elsewhere. They seemed to be isolated in a campaign of their own, shut out from the knowledge of their fellows and beyond the hope of mortal aid. Yet in a sense they were fortunate in their ignorance, for only the High Command knew how desperate was the position. When Ludendorff on the Saturday night announced that the first stage of the great battle had ended and counted his prisoners, he did not exaggerate his success. It was true that he had not yet broken the British line, but he had worn it to a shadow, and any hour might see that shadow dissolve.