next day. 'Never
mind, Wallace,' I said. 'We shall be out of this hell-on-earth
tomorrow.' And he took my hand. We weren't much for showing feeling
or anything in the guards. But he took my hand. And we climbed out to
charge--Poor fellow, he was killed--" Herbertson dropped his head, and
for some moments seemed to go unconscious, as if struck. Then he lifted
his face, and went on in the same animated chatty fashion: "You see, he
had a presentiment. I'm sure he had a presentiment. None of the men got
killed unless they had a presentiment--like that, you know...."

Herbertson nodded keenly at Lilly, with his sharp, twinkling, yet
obsessed eyes. Lilly wondered why he made the presentiment responsible
for the death--which he obviously did--and not vice versa. Herbertson
implied every time, that you'd never get killed if you could keep
yourself from having a presentiment. Perhaps there was something in it.
Perhaps the soul issues its own ticket of death, when it can stand no
more. Surely life controls life: and not accident.

"It's a funny thing what shock will do. We had a sergeant and he shouted
to me. Both his feet were off--both his feet, clean at the ankle. I gave
him morphia. You know officers aren't allowed to use the needle--might
give the man blood poisoning. You give those tabloids. They say they act
in a few minutes, but they DON'T. It's a quarter of an hour. And nothing
is more demoralising than when you have a man, wounded, you know, and
crying out. Well, this man I gave him the morphia before he got over the
stunning, you know. So he didn't feel the pain. Well, they carried him
in. I always used to like to look after my men. So I went next morning
and I found he hadn't been removed to the Clearing Station. I got hold
of the doctor and I said, 'Look here! Why hasn't this man been taken
to the Clearing Station?' I used to get excited. But after some years
they'd got used to me. 'Don't get excited, Herbertson, the man's dying.'
'But,' I said, 'he's just been talking to me as strong as you are.' And
he had--he'd talk as strong and well as you or me, then go quiet for
a bit. I said I gave him the morphia before he came round from the
stunning. So he'd felt nothing. But in two hours he was dead. The doctor
says that the shock does it like that sometimes. You can do nothing
for them. Nothing vital is injured--and yet the life is broken in them.
Nothing can be done--funny thing--Must be something in the brain--"

"I