"We’ll go along the front parapet first," he announced; "that’s where most of ’em are.... Yes, ’ere’s one—a Jock; lance-corporal, by his stripe. Get his pay-book out of his pocket, ’Erb. Not got one? Well, he _ought_ to ’ave, that’s all; it’s in Regulations. Look at his identity-disc, then. Read it out, and read it slow; my pencil’s blunt. _Number Seven-Six-Five-Fower-Eight—Private J. Couper_—been promoted since he got that—_Second Royal Covenanters—Presbyterian_. Righto! Now, this one—No, never mind ’im, it’s only a ’Un; no need to take _his_ number! Pass along, boys! Get a move on; we’ve got a lot to do." The little procession moved on, performing its grim duties with characteristic sang-froid, lightened by the incurable, untimely, invaluable flippancy of the British soldier. Presently they came to a place where a bastion of sandbags had been improvised as an emplacement for a Lewis gun. The gun itself lay twisted and earthy on a heap of burst sandbags; below the emplacement lay the gun’s crew. "One shell got the lot, I fancy," remarked Sergeant Busby. "Switch on your torch, Alf; there are four or five of ’em here. Lift them clear of one another, boys." Four bodies were lifted, not irreverently, and laid side by side on the ground behind the emplacement, with sightless eyes upturned to the twinkling stars. One remained—a long-legged figure in shirt-sleeves, lying with face turned to the parapet. "Help me to turn this feller over, ’Erb," commanded the sergeant. "Seems to have lost his toonic; Government property, too! Well, he can’t be brought up for it now. Hallo! ... _’Strewth_! ... Did you see that, ’Erb? It give me a turn for a minute. ’Alf a tick!" He bent down hurriedly, and listened. "He’s breathing! There’s a stretcher-party round that traverse; you, Richards, double off and bring them, quick!" Five minutes later the insensible form of the man who had mislaid Government property was borne away, and Sergeant Busby proceeded with the identification of his less (or more) fortunate companions. ’Erb, the _littérateur_ of the party, read off the identity-discs one by one. "_Smith—Turner—’Opkins_," repeated the sergeant, labouring with the blunt pencil. "That’s the first lot of Loyals we’ve struck. There must be a heap more somewhere; we’ll find ’em presently. What’s the name of this last one? Give us his number first. _Six-O-Four-O-Two; Private T. Birnie_—spelt with two I’s—right! Royal Loyals, I suppose? _Religion_? Eh, what’s the trouble now?" "Sergeant," interposed ’Erb, in a puzzled voice, "look ’ere! This ain’t no private; it’s an orficer! Look at his tunic—three stars, and all!" Sergeant Busby flashed his electric torch once more. It revealed a grey-haired man, with a captain’s tunic wrapped round his shoulders, tied by the sleeves.