"I would secretly construct some sort of contrivance that would protect our troops as they dashed across No Man’s Land. That’s the most dangerous moment. I’m not worrying about artillery fire, mind you! You may dodge that, or you may not; anyhow, there’s a sporting chance about it. It’s those machine guns! The Germans have them fixed in such a way that when they are all fired at once there is not a yard of ground that isn’t a running river of bullets. Now mark you, once we get across that bullet zone, we have the Hun at our mercy. We British"—Alf’s emaciated frame stiffened exultantly—"can do _anything_ with the bayonet! But we must get across first!" "But how?" Marjorie sighed despairingly. "I don’t know: I haven’t enough technical knowledge. But some sort of armour-plated motor ’bus would be the idea. I’ll bet old Kitchener would have fixed it, if he’d been alive. Oh, dear!" (The _Hampshire_ had gone down some six weeks previously.) "By the way, have you heard from Mr. Birnie of late?" Then Marjorie would tell him all Roy’s news. Naturally it contained little of military value, but our two enthusiasts read it—or rather, approved portions thereof—with all the solemn deference due to the Authority on the Spot. "He may get home on leave some time soon," Marjorie said. "He went out last August, and it’s July now. Leave is long over-due, but they stopped it all for weeks before the battle. His battalion was in the opening attack, I think, but they are out now, refitting." "It must have been an anxious time for you while they were in," said Alf. "Did you know?" "Yes—at least, I knew a few weeks before that they were at Bray-sur-Somme; so when the news of the attack came I felt pretty certain." Alf’s mild blue eyes flashed. "I wish I had been with him," he said, "instead of"—he glanced disparagingly downstage, to where Phil Kay, entrenched in the orchestra, was resisting Tubby Ames’s bi-weekly offensive—"_this_! It must be a grand moment, coming back to rest, right out of a battle—all mud-splashed, and exhausted, knowing you have made good! Did he give you any details when he wrote?" "The only detail that mattered," said Marjorie with an unsteady little laugh, "was this!" She produced a field post card—muddy, crumpled, evidently dispatched by the grimy hand of a stretcher-bearer or a ration orderly. On the back were printed certain alternative statements, familiar enough by this time, designed by the authorities to cover all the chances incident to the life of a soldier in the field. They were all deleted with a blunt pencil, save the first: _I am well_. "That was the nicest letter I ever had from him!" said Marjorie. "And I bet that’s saying a good deal!" replied Alf, with a stately little bow. "Now, touching this Delville Wood, on the right—"