ber of men
at Noyelles. This village was attacked by a company of the Royal
Fusiliers; fought for desperately in one brief, mad melee, during which
blood ran freely, but remaining in the hands of the British, formed the
nearest point in the Line to Cambrai.

At Nine Wood all was quiet--except for the unearthly sounds emanating
from the nostrils of one Tich sleeping in the reserve troughs with one
side of his features buried in an inch of brown mud. Desultory
conversation came down from the wide trough "Old man Casey" had dug and
had adorned with an empty whisky bottle found in the grass. He was
looking at it lovingly where it stood mouth downwards: for the obvious
reason, he observed, that its spirits were like his own--all run out.

The Ten Hundred were tired, dead-beat. Marching all Sunday night,
fatigue for hours on Monday, again marching in the night. Finally the
attack and its holding ... eyes were heavy with ache for sleep.

Between eight and nine they were relieved, stumbled away from the wood
until feet rang noisily on the rough surface of a sunken road winding
Marcoing-wards.

Near a side road a number of houses were used as billet--Marcoing was
untouched by shells on that date--and into these buildings Ten Hundred
unshaven, unwashed, worn-out Normans entered slowly, found corners for
the long-wished-for rest and threw down equipment and packs. Some jerked
off boots, some faked up pillows, but the majority turned on one side,
head on valise, and fell straightway into an oblivion that nothing could
disturb.

Lying across a doorway, his boots and equipment still on, a veritable
boy breathed regularly in the same attitude into which he had sunk the
moment he had passed inside. His pale, tired face was dimly visible in
the hazy starlight and one wondered at the peaceful serenity.

The last boot clattered loudly on the floor, the last rattle of a rifle
placed by the owner's side, the last long-drawn sigh of relief ...
Silence. Above them all Woden wove the magic spell Oblivion, the Rest of
the war-worn warrior.

Daybreak had long since passed and still no sound of movement from the
rows of tangled sleeping MEN. Tangle! They were lying in all directions
and at every angle; it was impossible to define whose feet were whose
or what had become of the chest and head of a pair of long legs leading
from a jumbled heap. Duport had his feet fast in the heel of someone
untraceable further than the knee--the first-name