of ruin and destruction, and the
Subaltern turned from it sick at stomach. It was the first result of a
big explosion he had seen. This was the sort of thing that he had read
so often summed up in a line of the Official Despatch or a two-line
newspaper paragraph: 'A mine was successfully exploded under a section
of the enemy's trench.' A mine--_his_ mine. . . . 'God!' the Subaltern
said softly under his breath, and looked wonderingly about him.

''E's a bloomin' little butcher, is that Lefftenant of ours,' the
Corporal said that night. ''Course it was a good bit o' work, an' he'd
reason to be proud of it; but--well I thought I'd a strongish stomach,
an' I've seen some dirty blood-an'-bones messes in my time but that
scorchin' shambles near turned me over. An' he comes back, after
lookin' at it, as cheerful as the cornerman o' a Christie Minstrel
troupe, an' as pleased as a dog wi' two tails. Fair pleased, 'e was.'

But he was a little wrong. What had brought the Subaltern back with
such a cheerful air was not the sight of his work, not the grim picture
of the smashed trenches. It was an encounter he had had with a little
group of German prisoners, the recognising amongst them of a dirty,
mud-stained blue shirt with sleeves cut off above the elbows, a
close-cropped bare head, a boy's face with smooth oval chin and girlish
eyes. The mine work he had directed, but others had shared it. It was
the day's work--it was an incident of war--it was, after all, merely 'a
mine successfully exploded . . .' But that one life saved was also his
work, and, moreover, his own, his individual personal work. It was of
that he thought most as he came back smiling to his Corporal.

ARTILLERY SUPPORT

'_. . . supported by a close and accurate artillery
fire . . ._'--EXTRACT FROM OFFICIAL DESPATCH.

From his position in the 'Observation Post' the Artillery Forward
Officer watched the fight raging along his front much as a spectator in
the grand-stand watches a football match. Through his glasses he could
see every detail and movement of the fighters, see even their facial
expressions, the grip of hands about their weapons. Queerly enough, it
was something like looking at the dumb show of a cinema film. He could
see a rifle pointed and the spit of flame from the muzzle without
hearing any report, could see an officer gesticulating and his mouth
opening and closing in obvious stentorian shoutings without hearing the
f