Presently an order reached me--Heaven knows how--to look out and select whatever "combat position" I could for my men. But what position was I to select? I couldn't see much of a panorama from my hole. I must go out and reconnoitre. I called for a volunteer, and every man in the platoon answered, "I, sir! I, sir!" Nearest, best heard. A glance at the fellow next to me. It was Pierrat, a brick. He would do. So, my steps dogged by this hardy terrier, I began to play hide and seek from enclosure to enclosure, dodging down towards the river. Now a back yard, now an orchard, had to be negotiated. They were tricky places; you never knew whether you wouldn't come to a dead stop before you were half-way through. From time to time, whenever a fresh bit of shelter is reached, without looking back, I called out to Pierrat: "Keeping on?" "_Oui, oui_," he answered, and it was a comfort to be sure that my faithful shadow was still at my heels. II--A DASH ACROSS THE DEATH ZONE When we were almost at the bottom of the declivity I descried near the bridge, but on the other side of the road, the railway station. A nice position, this--quite my fancy. Suppose we occupied it! But it must be investigated first, and--well, it was on the other side of the road. My rifleman and I took a long look at the building, and calculated the distance between it and us, and cast a wistful look at each other. "Rum job, sir," Pierrat agreed. Then, after a moment's consideration, he blurted out: "But I've an idea. Let us make the dash together. The odds are that one of the two will get over." "Quite so," I told him. "Yet, if I'm the one who does not, will _you_ take command of the fellows?" He hesitated for a second, took another look at me, and then answered, resolutely, "Why not, sir?" I shook hands with my new-found successor and, in two leaps the seven-league-booted ogre would have been proud of, we were across the death-zone. Thence, crawling through some gardens, we reached the station unscathed. I got into what had been the waiting-room and the station-master's tiny office. Broken chairs, topsy-turvy tables, lacerated prints, smashed telephone and telegraph fixtures, and empty bottles galore strewed the floor. Wherever Teutons have been, "dead" bottles are certain to be found. "Drunkards!" grumbled Pierrat, probably feeling very dry.