Patriotism and glory! They sounded empty words compared with life. There was only one word that was an incentive to keep us steady—pride. We might survive; we did not wish to live with selves who would have to hang their heads. Yes, and there was another incentive—duty: the thought of comrades still further forward, to whom the roar of our eighteen-pounders would be happy as a peal of bells. Crawling, hailing, trotting for brief spells, we had travelled about four thousand yards when we saw the windmill on the rise, from which the Major was observing, and in front of the windmill the Hindenburg Line which we were supposed to have smashed. In the plain which stretched behind the mill, our sacrifice batteries were strong out, belching fire. Across the plain our supporting infantry were trickling up in Indian file, winding their way about the batteries in action and side-stepping to avoid the bursting shells. Suddenly we understood, as though the meaning of what for four years we had been doing were being revealed to us for the first time. In a flash we saw war’s glory, its wickedness, magnanimity, challenge and the amazing fortitude it begets in men. It taught unbrave, ordinary chaps how to try and go on trying, long after hope seemed at an end. Each one of those batteries out there in the plain was like a “Little Revenge,” surrounded and dragged down by weight of numbers; but out or sheer self-respecting stubbornness it never ceased spurting fire. Everyone of those infantry, plodding stolidly forward, was quaking at the thought of the Judgment Day up front; but each one of them would rather die a thousand deaths than shew the white-feather. The sight was blinding, maddening, intoxicating. If those chaps didn’t mind dying, why should we hang on to life? Leaving the first-line wagons parked by the roadside, we set off at the gallop with the guns and firing-battery wagons to where we saw Heming’s four guns blazing away in the sunshine. The infantry stood aside to give us passage. They waved their caps and shouted. We could not hear a word of what they said; we only saw their lips moving. The pounding of our going drowned all other sounds. We swung into line on Heming’s right, flinging our horses back on their haunches. Before we had had time to unhook, a shell had burst directly under the centre team of A. Sub’s gun; men and horses were rolling. We dragged our drivers out and had to shoot the horses before we could get the gun into action. Then Bedlam broke loose.