Almost languidly the Major opened the envelope. It was about the fiftieth he had received that day. Then, dismissing the orderly, he strode across the room and pinned the contents to the notice-board. "Urgent, you fellows!" Bedlam ceased. The combatants broke away, and arm in arm joined in the throng around the board. It was an order from the General Officer Commanding, briefly stating that the enemy was still advancing in force and the squadron was to attack by low-flying machine-gunnery. "It cannot be expected," concluded the order, "that this work can be performed without considerable loss." Brief and to the point. The officers read it carefully. There was silence in the room. Everyone knew what the work entailed. Some, perhaps many of them now present, would go and not return. The already heavy casualty list of the R.A.F. would be greatly augmented. "Some stunt this!" remarked a voice. "But I say; what's wrong with dinner? Ring the bell for that messman, somebody." CHAPTER VII When the Hun Pushed There was little rest for anyone that night. In spite of the outward show of levity every man realized more or less the gravity of the situation. Taking advantage of heavy mists that caused the deadly poison-gas to roll sullenly over the British lines, the Huns were pushing forward regardless of the cost. Their High Command knew perfectly well that it was a gambler's last throw. Failure meant a total and sudden crumpling up of the German Empire on all fronts. It was a despairing effort to aim a knock-out blow at the British, in the hope that it would result in a relaxation of the British navy's strangle-hold upon every subject of the Kaiser. Yet, although from an Allied point of view the situation was serious, not for one moment did the British, from the Commander-in-Chief down to the latest-arrived Tommy, entertain any doubts as to the issue of the titanic conflict. We were going back, it was true, but sooner or later the pendulum would swing in the opposite direction, and the Hunnish hordes would either be smashed by Foch, or else driven pell-mell across the Rhine. Already airmen were busily engaged in getting stores and material away. Rumours, often too true, were coming through of vast quantities of stores falling into the hands of the enemy, often owing to the blind confidence of those in charge in the ability of a comparatively few British troops to withstand ten or even twenty times their number. Huge motor-lorries, piled high with material, rumbled away as fast as they could be loaded up. Wounded men, some "walking cases", others badly hit, were streaming towards the now perilously-advanced dressing-stations. Troops, both British and French, were arriving to succour their worn-out and harassed comrades, while, almost momentarily, night bombing-machines were either going to or returning from their destructive missions.