reed the subaltern. 'Ghastly sort of game altogether,
isn't it? Those poor fellows of mine now--the killed, I mean. Think
of their fathers and mothers and wives or sweethearts----'

'I'd rather not,' said the gunner. 'And I shouldn't advise you to.
Better not to think of these things.'

'I wish they'd come again,' said the Platoon commander. 'It would stop
the shells for a bit perhaps. They're getting on my nerves. One's so
helpless against them, sticking here waiting to know where the next
will drop. And they don't even give a fellow the ordinary four to one
chance of a casualty being a wound only. They make such a cruel messy
smash of a fellow. . . . Are you going?'

'Must find that break in my wire,' said the gunner, and presently he
and the telephonist ploughed off along the trench.

The bombardment continued with varying intensity throughout the day.
There was no grand finale, no spectacular rush or charge, no crashing
assault, no heroic hand-to-hand combats--no anything but the long-drawn
agony of lying still and being hammered by the crashing shells. This
was no 'artillery preparation for the assault,' although the Royal
Blanks did not know that and so dare not stir from the danger zone of
the forward trench. They were not even to have the satisfaction of
giving back some of the punishment they had endured, or the glory--a
glory carefully concealed from their friends at home, and mostly lost
by the disguising or veiling of their identity in the newspapers, but
still a glory--of taking a trench or making a successful attack or
counter-attack. It was merely another 'heavy artillery bombardment,'
lived through and endured all unknown, as so many have been endured.

The Royal Blanks were relieved at nightfall when the fire had died
down. The Artillery Observing Officer was just outside the
communication trench at the relief hour and saw the casualties being
helped or carried out. A stretcher passed and the figure on it had a
muddy and dark-stained blanket spread over, and an officer's cap and
binoculars on top.

'An officer?' asked the gunner. 'Who is it?' 'Mr. Grant, sir,' said
one of the stretcher-bearers dully. 'No. 2 Platoon.'

The gunner noted the empty sag of the blanket where the head and
shoulders should have been outlined and checked the half-formed
question of 'Badly hit?' to 'How was it?'

'Shell, sir. A Fizz-Bang hit the parapet just where 'e was lyin'.
Caught 'im fair.'

The