ere there. Crouching back, a man would
pull the pin out of his bomb, run forward, and hurl it into the trench
where the Germans were huddled in groups. And away behind the South
Loamshires, on the shell-pocked ground that now boiled and heaved like
some monstrous sulphur spring, with thick black and yellow fumes
drifting slowly across it, there lay the first fruits of the harvest: a
few of the gaps in the evening's roll-call.

On the flank a machine-gun was going, taking them in enfilade. In
front, Germans--numbers of Germans--glared snarling at them out of the
trench, or whimpered in a corner with arms upraised, as was the nature
of the beasts. A non-commissioned officer picked up a bomb and hurled
it at the advancing platoon sergeant; only to cry "_Kamerad_" when it
failed to explode. . . .

And so the South Loamshires, or such as were left of them, came to
their objective; the first part of the play was over. The
machine-gunner who had enfiladed them passed in his checks, fighting to
the end, brained with the butt of a rifle.

Occasionally a wounded man crawled into the trench; a German officer
sat sullenly in a corner stanching a gaping hole in his leg. Behind
them, towards the Essex Trench, the air was now clearer; the
bombardment had moved over the line they had won, and thundered down on
the German communications.

"Runner!" A Company Commander stood shakily trying to patch up a wound
in his arm. As far as he could tell from a hasty reconnaissance, he
was the senior officer present. "Give this to the C.O.: 'Objectives
won. Situation on right doubtful. Estimated casualties two hundred.'"
He handed the man a slip of paper.

At a steady lope the runner went over the back of the trench, into the
barrage of German shrapnel and high explosive. They saw him reach it,
stop suddenly, twist round, and slither slowly forward.

"Runner down, sir." A sergeant standing by spoke almost casually.

"Runner!" Once again the officer called; once again a man went off at
a jog-trot. They saw him reach his predecessor; stop a moment and bend
down. He looked round and shook his head and went steadily on. The
luck of the game--that's all. And it's only when one's sitting
still--waiting, that one asks "Why?" Ten minutes later he was with the
C.O., waiting for the answer to take back.

And so the drama is over; the play has been a success. From the wings
the Staff Captain and the Sapper have returned to Brigad