we goin' back again for? There ain't any sign of
Jerry."

"No, but 'e 'as got through too far to the south."

"Yes--an' we're moving back north-west now."

"Why?"

"Dunno. 'E's got round some'ow to the south."

An hour or undisturbed quiet. Nothing could be seen, no shells (his
artillery was unable to keep pace with the rapidity of advance), no gas.
Then through the silence, from nowhere it seemed, a half-spent bullet
whistled and buried itself with a spiteful "phut." After a pause ... a
whine, accompanied by others, falling short. In the distance his
machine-gunners and advanced screen of scouts appeared ... the whining
merged into a constant buzzing, men coughed furiously and bent forward,
fell awkwardly ... straightened out. Here and there a khaki figure
clutched fiercely at tufts of grass, writhed feverishly in one last
desperate fight for breath, looked a sad farewell at their living
comrades--a glance that went straight to the heart--and went their way
into the warrior's hall in Valhalla.

From far down the flank a further movement rearward could be noticed
spreading yard by yard until once more, weary of spirit, worn, hungry,
you stood up somewhere in the stream of lead and retired.

At nightfall he would be out of view. By morning his advanced posts
would be sniping at the thin khaki line. Night ... an ebony pall pierced
by a score of brilliant burning houses. Fantastic, grotesque. Crimson
glows upon which tired eyes rested unthinking, uncaring, the mind worn
under the ceaseless repetition: "When will we stop? Why don't they let
us fight it out? God, we'd make a mess of him anyhow." Then someone
would address no one in particular:

"Wonder 'ow many we 'ave left?"

"Gawd knows. About a 'undred an' fifty."

"See 'im toppling our lads out at Verbequie?"

"Yes. An' by that meadow gate. It makes me blood boil to think they
won't let us 'ave a go at 'im."

"Ah, well. I s'pose it will be my turn to-morrow."

That is the crux of it: Your turn to-morrow? Who can tell ... what does
it matter ... what is life after all? But the all-pervading ardour of
youth's "Will of Life" whispers with a bitter realisation of what death
really means that you WANT to live. Never before has existence been so
full of future possibilities, the wish for life so poignant!

His overwhelming numerical superiority gave no evidence of slackening,
his pressure on the gaping line of khaki continued unabated. No
reserves, or hope o