He pointed to our senior major, a very gallant officer indeed, but a man who had, as the scout officer said, an unfortunate tendency to expose himself to fire. He was at the moment standing at the cross-roads, beyond the shelter of the cottage, looking through his field-glasses in the direction of the enemy's lines. The cross-roads at which he was standing was a most exposed place. The Major was a smart, dapper-looking man, and he stood with his legs apart, one hand holding the glasses, the other brushing his moustache. Suddenly there was a sharp ping; he dropped the glasses, raised his right foot sharply, and swore. Then he came limping in. "Curse the brutes--curse the brutes," he said, sitting on the ground and nursing his foot; "they have shot me through the big toe." The doctor went to the Major's assistance and the scout officer peered round the corner of the house to see if he could make out where the shot had come from. Presently he came back. "I think they have got a Maxim up in that church tower, sir," he said. There was a fine church in the town the enemy were holding, and the tower stood high up above the other buildings. "Have they, by Gad--the brutes," said the Major, still nursing his injured foot, which was causing him acute pain. "Here, let me look" he limped to the corner. A Maxim could plainly be heard firing from somewhere in front, ping-ping-ping--ping-ping-ping. "By Jove, I believe you are right," said the Major. "Here, just send that gunnery officer to me." The artillery observing subaltern came up. "Look here, they've got a Maxim in that church tower--see, over there--thing hit me in the foot just now. Can you telephone back and get your guns to it?" "Yes, sir," said the gunnery subaltern. Soon four heavy guns were playing on the church tower, and the tower crumbled. So are churches and other things destroyed in war time. It was now nearly ten, and we returned to our trench. Soon bullets came whistling overhead, and we knew the attack had been launched. We lay low in the dug-outs waiting till we were wanted. Knowing the ground, I could picture clearly what was going on in front, and I did not envy the Westshires their task. I could imagine them getting out of their trenches and advancing in line over that murderous stretch of ploughland. When we had been in the trenches they were then leaving we had hardly dared show our noses above them; but now the Westshires had the order, and out they had to go, and forward. Phzz-phzz-phzz. The bullets began to come over more quickly, and we could hear the answering fire of the Westshires. It may have been half an hour that we lay there, and then a hot, dusty figure crawled round the corner of the trench. "Is the Captain of B Company there?" "Yes, I'm here," Goyle answered.