"Rawbon!" he said sharply. "Good Lord, man! I'd forgotten--What took
you out there?"

"Say, Loo-tenant," said Rawbon, panting hard. "There's no crossin' that
mud puddle Fry-Pan. They're holding the barricade 'cross there; got
loopholes an' shootin' through 'em. Can't we climb out an' over the
open an' on top of 'em?"

"No good," said Courtenay. "They're sweeping it with maxims. Listen!"

Up to then Rawbon had heeded nothing above the level of the trench and
the hollow but now he could hear the steady roar of rifle and maxim
fire, and the constant whistle of bullets streaming overhead.

"I must rally another crowd and try'n' rush it," said Courtenay. "Stand
ready with that maxim there. I won't be long."

"I've got a box of bombs here, sir," said a man behind him.

Courtenay turned sharply. "Good," he said. "But no--it's too far to
throw them."

"I think I could just about fetch it, sir," said the man.

"All right," said Courtenay. "Try it while I get some men together."

"Here y' are, chum," said the man, "you light 'em an' I'll chuck 'em.
This way for the milky coco-nuts!"

Rawbon watched curiously. The bomb was round shaped and rather larger
than a cricket ball. A black tube affair an inch or two long projected
from it and emitted, when lit, a jet of hissing, spitting sparks. The
bomb-thrower seized the missile quickly, stepped clear of the
sheltering corner of the trench, threw the bomb, and jumped back under
cover. A couple of bullets slapped into the wall of the trench, and
next moment the bomb burst.

"Just short," said the thrower, who had peeped out at sound of the
report. "Let's 'ave another go."

This time a shower of bullets greeted him as he stepped out, but he
hurled his bomb and stepped back in safety. A third he threw, but this
time a bullet caught him and he reeled back with blood staining the
shoulder of his tunic.

"You'll 'ave to excuse me," he remarked gravely to the man with the
match. "Can't stay now. I 'ave an urgent appointment in
_Blighty_.[Footnote: England. A soldier's corruption of the Hindustani
word "Belati."] But I'll drink your 'ealth when I gets to Lunnon."

Rawbon had watched the throwing impatiently. "Look here," he said
suddenly. "Just lemme have a whale at this pitching. I'll show 'em some
curves that'll dazzle 'em."

The wounded man peered at him and then at his cap badge. "Now 'oo the
blank is this?" he demanded. "Blimey, Joe, if 'ere ain't a blooming
Universal Plum-an'-Apple Provider. 'Ere, 'oo stole the strawberry jam?"

"You let me in on this ball game," said Rawbon. "Light 'em and pass 'em
quick, and see me put the Indian sign on that bunch."

A minute later Courtenay came back and stared in amazement at the
scene. Two men were lighting and passing up bombs to the sergeant, who,
standing clear out in the opening, grabbed and hurled the balls with an
extraordinary prancing and dancing and arm-swinging series of
contortions, while the crowded trench laughed and applauded.

"Some pitchin', Loo-tenant," he panted beamingly, stepping back into
shelter. "Hark at 'em. And every darn one right over the plate. Say,
step out here an' watch this next lot."

"No time now," said Courtenay hurriedly.

"They're strengthening their defense every minute. Are you all ready
there, lads?"

"I don't know who this man is, sir," said a sergeant quickly. "But he's
doing great work. Every bomb has gone in behind the parado there. He
might try a few more to shake them before we advance."

"Behind the parakeet," snorted Rawbon. "I should smile. You watch! I'll
put some through the darn loopholes for you. Didn't know I was pitcher
to the Purple Socks, the year we whipped the League, did you? Gimme
thirty seconds, Loo-tenant, and I'll put thirty o' these balls right
where they live."

As he spoke he picked up two of the bombs from a fresh box and held
them to the lighter. As he plunged out a shower of bullets spattered
the trench wall about him, but without heeding these he began to throw.
As the roar of the bursting bombs began, the bullets slowed down and
ceased. "Keep the lights blazing," Rawbon paused to shout to the man
with the pistol flares. "You slide out for the home base, Loo-tenant,
and I'll keep 'em too busy to shoot their nasty little guns." He
commenced to hurl the bombs again. Courtenay stepped out and watched a
moment. Bomb after bomb whizzed true and hard across the hollow, just
skimmed the breastwork, struck on the trench wall that showed beyond
and a foot above it, and fell behind the barricade. Billowing
smoke-clouds and gusts of flame leaped and flashed above the parapet.
Courtenay saw the chance and took it. He plunged out into the lake of
mud and plowed through it towards the barricade, the men swarming
behind him, and the sergeant's bombs hurtling with trailing streams of
sparks over their heads.

"Come on, son," said the sergeant. "You carry that box and gimme the
slow match. I pitch better with a little run."

Courtenay reached the barricade and led his men over and round
it without a casualty. The space behind the barricade was
deserted--deserted, that is, except by the dead, and by some
unutterable things that would have been better dead.

The lost portion of trench was recaptured, and more, the defense,
demoralized by that tornado of explosions, was pushed a good fifty
yards further back before the counter-attack was stayed.

At daybreak next morning Courtenay and the sergeant stood together on
the road leading to the communication trench. Both were crusted to the
shoulders in thick mud; Rawbon's cap was gone, and his hair hung
plastered in a wet mop over his ears and forehead, and Courtenay showed
a red-stained bandage under his cap.

"Rawbon," he said, "I feel rotten over this business. Here you've done
some real good work--I don't believe we'd ever have got across without
your bombing--and you won't let me say a word about it. I'm dashed if I
like it. Dash it, you ought to get a V.C., or a D.C.M. at least, for
it."

"Now lookahere, Loo-tenant," said Rawbon soothingly. "There's no need
for you to feel peaked--not any. It was darn good of you to let me in
on these sacred no-admittance-'cept-on-business trenches, and I'm plumb
glad I landed in the mix-up. It would probably raise trouble for you if
your boss knew you'd slipped me in; and it sure would raise everlasting
trouble for me at home if my name was flourishin' in the papers gettin'
an A.B.C. or D.A.M.N. or whatever the fixin' is. And I'd sooner have
this"--slapping the German helmet that dangled at his belt--"than your
whole darn alphabet o' initials. Don't forget what I told you about the
dad an' those Schwartzeheimer friends o' his, the cousins o' which same
friends I've been blowin' off the earth with bomb base-balls. Let it go
at that, and never forget it, friend--I'm a Benevolent Neutral."

"I won't forget it," said Courtenay, laughing and shaking hands. He
watched the sergeant as he bestrode the motor-cycle, pushed off, and
swung off warily down the wet road into the morning mist.

"What was it that despatch said a while back!" he mused. "Something
about 'There are few who appreciate or even understand the value of the
varied work of the Army Service Corps.' Well, this lot was a bit more
varied than usual, and I fancy it might astonish even the fellow who
wrote that line."



DRILL


"_Yesterday one of the enemy's heavy guns was put out of action by our
artillery._"--EXTRACT FROM DESPATCH.


"Stand fast!" the instructor bellowed, and while the detachment
stiffened to immobility he went on, without stopping to draw breath,
bellowing other and less printable remarks. After he had finished these
he ordered "Detachment rear!" and taking more time and adding even more
point to his remarks, he repeated some of them and added others,
addressing abruptly and virulently the "Number" whose bungling had
aroused his wrath.

"You've learnt your gun drill," he said, "learned it like a
sulphur-crested cockatoo learns to gabble 'Pretty Polly scratch a
poll'; why in the name of Moses you can't make your hands do what your
tongue says 'as me beat. You, Donovan, that's Number Three, let me hear
you repeat the drill for Action Front."

Donovan, standing strictly to attention, and with his eyes fixed
straight to his front, drew a deep breath and rattled off:

"At the order or signal from the battery leader or section commander,
'Halt action front!' One orders 'Halt action front!'--At the order from
One, the detachment dismounts, Three unkeys, and with Two lifts the
trail; when the trail is clear of the hook, Three orders 'Limber drive
on.'"

The instructor interrupted explosively.

"You see," he growled, "you know it. Three orders 'Limber drive on.'
You're Three! but did you order limber drive on, or limber drive off,
or drive anywhere at all? Did you expect drivers that would be sitting
up there on their horses, with their backs turned to you, to have eyes
in the backs of their heads to see when you had the trail lifted, or
did you be expectin' them to thought-read that you wanted them to drive
on!"

Three, goaded at last to a sufficiency of daring, ventured to mutter
something about "was going to order it."

The instructor caught up the phrase and flayed him again with it. "'Was
going to,'" he repeated, "'was going to order it.' Perhaps some day,
when a bullet comes along and drills a hole in your thick head, you
will want to tell it you 'was going to' get out of the way. You maybe
expect the detachment to halt and stand easy, and light a cigarette,
and have a chat while you wait to make up your mind what you're going
to say, and when you're going to say it! And if ever you get past
recruit drill in the barracks square, my lad, and smell powder burnt in
action, you'll learn that there's no such thing as 'going to' in your
gun drill. If you're slow at it, if you fumble your fingers, and tie
knots in your tongue, and stop to think about your 'going to,' you'll
find maybe that 'going to' has gone before you make up your mind, and
the only thing 'going to' will be you and your detachment; and its
Kingdom Come you'll be 'going to' at that. And now we'll try it again,
and if I find any more 'going to' about it this time it's an hour's
extra drill a day you'll be 'going to' for the next week."

He kept the detachment grilling and grinding for another hour before he
let them go, and at the end of it he spent another five minutes
pointing out the manifold faults and failings of each individual in the
detachment, reminding them that they belonged to the Royal Regiment of
Artillery that is "The right of the line, the terror of the world, and
the pride of the British Army," and that any man who wasn't a shining
credit to the Royal Regiment was no less than a black disgrace to it.

When the detachment dismissed, and for the most part gravitated to the
canteen, they passed some remarks upon their instructor almost pungent
enough to have been worthy of his utterance. "Him an' his everlastin'
'Cut the Time!'"

"I'm just about fed up with him," said Gunner Donovan bitterly, "and
I'd like to know where's all the sense doing this drill against a
stop-watch. You'd think from the way he talks that a man's life was
hanging on the whiskers of a half-second. Blanky rot, I call it."

"I wouldn't mind so much," said another gunner, "if ever he thought to
say we done it good, but not 'im. The better we does it and the faster,
the better and the faster he wants it done. It's my belief that if he
had a gun detachment picked from the angels above he'd tell 'em their
buttons and their gold crowns was a disgrace to Heaven, that they was
too slow to catch worms or catch a cold, and that they'd 'ave to cut
the time it took 'em to fly into column o' route from the right down
the Golden Stairs, or to bring their 'arps to the 'Alt action front."

These were the mildest of the remarks that passed between the smarting
Numbers of the gun detachment, but they would have been astonished
beyond words if they could have heard what their instructor Sergeant
"Cut-the-Time" was saying at that moment to a fellow-sergeant in the
sergeants' mess.

"They're good lads," he said, "and it's me, that in my time has seen
the making and the breaking and the handling and the hammering of gun
detachments enough to man every gun in the Army, that's saying it. I
had them on the 'Halt action front' this morning, and I tell you
they've come on amazing since I took 'em in hand. We cut three solid
seconds this morning off the time we have been taking to get the gun
into action, and a second a round off the firing of ten rounds. They'll
make gunners yet if they keep at it."

"Three seconds is good enough," said the other mildly.

"It isn't good enough," returned the instructor, "if they can make it
four, and four's not good enough if they can make it five. It's when
they can't cut the time down by another split fraction of a second that
I'll be calling them good enough. They won't be blessing me for it now,
but come the day maybe they will."

*       *       *       *       *

The battery was moving slowly down a muddy road that ran along the edge
of a thick wood. It had been marching most of the night, and, since the
night had been wet and dark, the battery was splashed and muddy to the
gun-muzzles and the tops of the drivers' caps. It was early morning,
and very cold. Gunners and drivers were muffled in coats and woolen
scarves, and sat half-asleep on their horses and wagons. A thick and
chilly mist had delayed the coming of light, but now the mist had
lifted suddenly, blown clear by a quickly risen chill wind. When the
mist had been swept away sufficiently for something to be seen of the
surrounding country, the Major, riding at the head of the battery,
passed the word to halt and dismount, and proceeded to "find himself on
the map." Glancing about him, he picked out a church steeple in the
distance, a wayside shrine, and a cross-road near at hand, a curve of
the wood beside the road, and by locating these on the squared map,
which he took from its mud-splashed leather case, he was enabled to
place his finger on the exact spot on the map where his battery stood
at that moment. Satisfied on this, he was just about to give the order
to mount when he heard the sound of breaking brushwood and saw an
infantry officer emerge from the trees close at hand.

The officer was a young man, and was evidently on an errand of haste.
He slithered down the steep bank at the edge of the wood, leaped the
roadside ditch, asked a question of the nearest man, and, getting an
answer from him, came at the double past the guns and teams towards the
Major. He saluted hastily, said "Mornin', sir," and went on
breathlessly: "My colonel sent me across to catch you. We are in a
ditch along the edge of the far side of this wood, and could just see
enough of you between the trees to make out your battery. From where we
are we can see a German gun, one of their big brutes, with a team of
about twenty horses pulling it, plain and fair out in the open. The
Colonel thinks you could knock 'em to glory before they could reach
cover."

"Where can I see them from!" said the Major quickly.

"I'll show you," said the subaltern, "if you'll leave your horse and
come with me through this wood. It's only a narrow belt of trees here."

The Major turned to one of his subalterns who was with him at the head
of the battery.

"Send back word to the captain to come up here and wait for me!" he
said rapidly. "Tell him what you have just heard this officer say, and
tell him to give the word, 'Prepare for action.' And now," he said,
turning to the infantryman, "go ahead."

The two of them jumped the ditch, scrambled up the bank, and
disappeared amongst the trees.

A message back to the captain who was at the rear of the battery
brought him up at a canter. The subaltern explained briefly what he had
heard, and the captain, after interrupting him to shout an order to
"Prepare for action," heard the finish of the story, pulled out his
map, and pointing out on it a road shown as running through the trees,
sent the subaltern off to reconnoiter it.

The men were stripping off their coats, rolling them and strapping them
to the saddles and the wagon seats; the Numbers One, the sergeants in
charge of each gun, bustling their gunners, and seeing everything about
the guns made ready: the gunners examining the mechanism and gears of
the gun, opening and closing the hinged flaps of the wagons, and
tearing the thin metal cover off the fuses.

It was all done smartly and handily, and one after another the
sergeants reported their subsections as ready. Immediately the captain
gave the order to mount, drivers swung themselves to their saddles, and
the gunners to their seats on the wagons, and all sat quietly waiting
for whatever order might come next.

The lifting of the mist had shown a target to the gunners on both sides
apparently, and the roar and boom of near and distant guns beat and
throbbed quicker and at closer intervals.

In three minutes the Major came running back through the wood, and the
captain moved to meet him.

"We've got a fair chance!" said the Major exultingly. "One of their big
guns clear in the open, and moving at a crawl. I want you to take the
battery along the road here, sharp to the right at the cross-road, and
through the wood. The Inf. tell me there is just a passable road
through. Take guns and firing battery wagons only; leave the others
here. When you get through the wood, turn to the right again, and along
its edge until you come to where I'll be waiting for you. I'll take the
range-taker with me. The order will be 'open sights'; it's the only
way--not time to hunt a covered position! Now, is all that clear?"

"Quite clear," said the captain tersely.

"Off you go, then," said the Major; "remember, it's quick work.
Trumpeter, come with me, and the range-taker. Sergeant-major, leave the
battery staff under cover with the first line."

He swung into the saddle, set his horse at the ditch, and with a leap
and scramble was over and up the bank and crashing into the
undergrowth, followed by his trumpeter and a man with the six-foot tube
of a range-finder strapped to the saddle.

Before he was well off the road the captain shouted the order to walk
march, and as the battery did so the subaltern who had been sent out to
reconnoiter the road came back at a canter.

"We can just do it," he reported; "it's greasy going, and the road is
narrow and rather twisty, but we can do it all right."

The captain sent back word to section commanders, and the other two
subalterns spurred forward and joined him.

"We go through the wood," he explained, "and come into action on the
other side. The order is 'open sights,' so I expect we'll be in an
exposed position. You know what that means. There's a gun to knock out,
and if we can do it and get back quick before they get our range we may
get off light. If we can't----" and he broke off significantly. "Get
back and tell your Numbers One, and be ready for quick moving."

Immediately they had fallen back the order was given to trot, and the
battery commenced to bump and rumble rapidly over the rough road. As
they neared the cross-roads they were halted a moment, and then the
guns and their attendant ammunition wagons only went on, turned into
the wood, and recommenced to trot.

They jolted and swayed and slid over the rough, wet road, the gunners
clinging fiercely to the handrails, the drivers picking a way as best
they could over bowlders and between ruts. They emerged on the far side
of the wood, found themselves in an open field, turned sharply to the
right, and kept on at a fast trot. A line of infantry were entrenched
amongst the trees on the edge of the wood, but their shouted remarks
were drowned in the clatter and rattle and jingle of wheels and
harness. Out on their left the ground rose very gently, and far beyond
a low crest could be seen clumps of trees, patches of fields, and a few
scattered farm? houses. At several points on this distant slope the
White smoke-clouds of bursting shells were puffing and breaking, but so
far there was no sign to be seen of any man or of any gun. When they
came to where the Major was waiting he rode out from the trees, blew
sharply on a whistle, and made a rapid signal with hand and arm. The
guns and wagons had been moving along the edge of the wood in single
file, but now at the shouted order each team swung abruptly to its left
and commenced to move in a long line out from the wood towards the low
crest, the whole movement being performed neatly and cleanly and still
at a trot. The Major rode to his place in the center of the line, and
the battery, keeping its place close on his heels, steadily increased
its pace almost to a canter. The Major's whistle screamed again, and at
another signal and the shouted orders the battery dropped to a walk.
Every man could see now over the crest and into the shallow valley that
fell away from it and rose again in gentle folds and slopes. At first
they could see nothing of the gun against which they had expected to be
brought into action, but presently some one discovered a string of tiny
black dots that told of the long team and heavy gun it drew. Another
sharp whistle and the Major's signal brought the battery up with a
jerk.

"Halt! action front!" The shouted order rang hoarsely along the line.
For a moment there was wild commotion; a seething chaos, a swirl of
bobbing heads and plunging horses. But in the apparent chaos there was
nothing but the most smooth and ordered movement, the quick but most
exact following of a routine drill so well ground in that its motions
were almost mechanical. The gunners were off their seats before the
wheels had stopped turning, the key snatched clear, and the trail of
the gun lifted, the wheels seized, and the gun whirled round in a
half-circle and dropped pointing to the enemy. The ammunition wagon
pulled up into place beside the gun, the traces flung clear, and the
teams hauled round and trotted off. As Gunner Donovan's trail was
lifted clear his yell of "Limber, drive on," started the team forward
with a jerk, and a moment later, as he and the Number Two slipped into
their seats on the gun the Number Two grinned at him. "Sharp's the
word," he said: "d'you mind the time----" He was interrupted roughly by
the sergeant, who had just had the target pointed out to him, jerking
up the trail to throw the gun roughly into line.

"Shut yer head, and get on to it, Donovan. You see that target there,
don't you?"

"See it a fair treat!" said Donovan joyfully; "I'll bet I plunk a bull
in the first three shots."

Back in the wood the infantry colonel, from a vantage-point half-way up
a tall tree, watched the ensuing duel with the keenest excitement.

The battery's first two ranging shots dropped in a neat bracket, one
over and one short; in the next two the bracket closed, the shorter
shot being almost on top of the target. This evidently gave the range
closely enough, and the whole battery burst into a roar of fire, the
blazing flashes running up and down the line of guns like the reports
of a gigantic Chinese cracker. Over the long team of the German gun a
thick cloud of white smoke hung heavily, burst following upon burst and
hail after hail of shrapnel sweeping the men and horses below. Then
through the crashing reports of the guns and the whimpering rush of
their shells' passage, there came a long whistling scream that rose and
rose and broke off abruptly in a deep rolling cr-r-r-rump. A spout of
brown earth and thick black smoke showed where the enemy shell had
burst far out in front of the battery.

The infantry colonel watched anxiously. He knew that out there
somewhere another heavy German gun had come into action; he knew that
it was a good deal slower in its rate of fire, but that once it had
secured its line and range it could practically obliterate the light
field guns of the battery. The battery was fighting against time and
the German gunners to complete their task before they could be
silenced. The first team was crippled and destroyed, and another team,
rushed out from the cover of the trees, was fallen upon by the shrapnel
tornado, and likewise swept out of existence.

Then another shell from the German gun roared over, to burst this time
well in the rear of the battery.

The colonel knew what this meant. The German gun had got its bracket.
The battery had ceased to fire shrapnel, and was pouring high-explosive
about the derelict gun. The white bursts of shrapnel had given place to
a series of spouting volcanoes that leaped from the ground about the
gun itself. Another German shell fell in front of the battery and a
good 200 yards nearer to it. A movement below attracted the colonel's
attention, and he saw the huddled teams straighten out and canter hard
towards the guns. He turned his glasses on the German gun again, and
could not restrain a cry of delight as he saw it collapsed and lying on
its side, while high-explosive shells still pelted about it.

The teams came up at a gallop, swept round the guns, and halted.
Instantly they were hooked in, the buried spades of the guns wrenched
free, the wheels manned, the trails dropped clashing on the limber
hooks. And as they dropped, another heavy shell soared over burst
behind the battery, so close this time that the pieces shrieked and
spun about the guns, wounding three horses and a couple of men. The
Major, mounted and waiting, cast quick glances from gun to gun. The
instant he saw they were ready he signaled an order, the drivers' spurs
clapped home, and the whips rose and fell whistling and snapping. The
battery jerked forward at a walk that broke immediately into a trot,
and from that to a hard canter.

Even above the clatter and roll of the wheels and the hammering
hoof-beats the whistle and rush of another heavy shell could be heard.
Gunner Donovan, twisted sideways and clinging close to the jolting
seat, heard the sound growing louder and louder, until it sounded so
close that it seemed the shell was going to drop on top of them. But it
fell behind them, and exactly on the position where the battery had
stood. Donovan's eye caught the blinding flash of the burst, the
springing of a thick cloud of black smoke. A second later something
shrieked hurtling down and past his gun team, and struck with a vicious
thump into the ground.

"That was near enough," shouted Mick, on the seat beside him. Donovan
craned over as they passed, and saw, half-buried in the soft ground,
the battered brass of one of their own shell cartridges. The heavy
shell had landed fairly on top of the spot where their gun had stood,
where the empty cartridge cases had been flung in a heap from the
breech. If they had been ten or twenty seconds later in getting clear,
if they had taken a few seconds longer over the coming into action or
limbering up, a few seconds more to the firing of their rounds, the
whole gun and detachment ...

Gunner Donovan leaned across to Mick and shouted loudly.

But his remark was so apparently irrelevant that Mick failed to
understand. A sudden skidding swerve as the team wheeled nearly jerked
him off his seat, the crackling bursts of half a dozen light shells
over the plain behind him distracted his attention for a moment
further. Then he leaned in towards Donovan, "What was that?" he yelled.
"What didjer say?"

Donovan repeated his remark. "Gawd--bless--old 'Cut-the-Time.'"

The battery plunged in amongst the trees, and into safety.



A NIGHT PATROL


"_During the night, only patrol and reconnoitering engagements of small
consequence are reported."_--EXTRACT FROM DESPATCH.


"Straff the Germans and all their works, particularly their mine
works!" said Lieutenant Ainsley disgustedly.

"Seeing that's exactly what you're told off to do," said the other
occupant of the dug-out, "why grouse about it?"

Lieutenant Ainsley laughed. "That's true enough," he admitted;
"although I fancy going out on patrol in this weather and on this part
of the line would be enough to make Mark Tapley himself grouse.
However, it's all in the course of a lifetime, I suppose."

He completed the fastening of his mackintosh, felt that the revolver on
his belt moved freely from its holster, and that the wire nippers were
in place, pulled his soft cap well down on his head, grunted a
"Good-night," and dropped on his hands and knees to crawl out of the
dug-out.

He made his way along the forward firing trench to where his little
patrol party awaited his coming, and having seen that they were
properly equipped and fully laden with bombs, and securing a number of
these for his own use, he issued careful instructions to the men to
crawl over the parapet one at a time, being cautious to do so only in
the intervals of darkness between the flaring lights.

He was a little ahead of the appointed time; and because the trench
generally had been warned not to fire at anyone moving out in front at
a certain hour, it was necessary to wait until then exactly. He told
the men to wait, and spent the interval in smoking a cigarette. As he
lit it the thought came to him that perhaps it was the last cigarette
he would ever smoke. He tried to dismiss the thought, but it persisted
uncomfortably. He argued with himself and told himself that he mustn't
get jumpy, that the surest way to get shot was to be nervous about
being shot, that the job was bad enough but was only made worse by
worrying about it. As a relief and distraction to his own thoughts, he
listened to catch the low remarks that were passing between the men of
his party.

"When I get home after this job's done," one of them was saying, "I'm
going to look for a billet as stoker in the gas works, or sign on in
one o' them factories that roll red-hot steel plates and you 'ave to
wear an asbestos sack to keep yourself from firing. After this I want
something as hot and as dry as I can find it."

"I think," said another, "my job's going to be barman in a nice snug
little public with a fire in the bar parlor and red blinds on the
window."

"Why don't you pick a job that'll be easy to get?" said the third, with
deep sarcasm--"say Prime Minister, or King of England. You've about as
much chance of getting them as the other."

Lieutenant Ainsley grinned to himself in the darkness. At least, he
thought, these men have no doubts about their coming back in safety
from this patrol; but then of course it was easier for them because
they did not know the full detail of the risk they ran. But it was no
use thinking of that again, he told himself.

He took his place in readiness, waited until one flare had burned out
and there was no immediate sign of another being thrown up, slipped
over the parapet and dropped flat in the mud on the other side. One by
one the men crawled over and dropped beside him, and then slowly and
cautiously, with the officer leading, they began to wend their way out
under their own entanglements.

There may be some who will wonder that an officer should feel such
qualms as Ainsley had over the simple job of a night patrol over the
open ground in front of the German trench; but, then, there are patrols
and patrols, or as the inattentive recruit at the gunnery class said
when he was asked to describe the varieties of shells he had been told
of: "There are some sorts of one kind, and some of another."

There are plenty of parts on the Western Front where affairs at
intervals settled down into such a peaceful state that there was
nothing more than a fair sporting risk attaching to the performance of
a patrol which leaves the shelter of our own lines at night to crawl
out amongst the barbed wire entanglements in the darkness. There have
been times when you might listen at night by the hour together and
hardly hear a rifle-shot, and when the burst of artillery fire was a
thing to be commented on. But at other times, and in some parts of the
line especially, business was run on very different lines. Then every
man in the forward firing-trench had a certain number of rounds to fire
each night, even although he had no definite target to fire at.
Magnesium flares and pistol lights were kept going almost without
ceasing, while the artillery made a regular practice of loosing off a
stated number of rounds per night. The Germans worked on fairly similar
lines, and as a result it can easily be imagined that any patrol or
reconnoitering work between the lines was apt to be exceedingly
unhealthy. Actually there were parts on the line where no feet had
pressed the ground of No Man's Land for weeks on end, unless in open
attack or counter-attack, and of these feet there were a good many that
never returned to the trench, and a good many others that did return
only to walk straight to the nearest aid-post and hospital.

The neutral ground at this period of Ainsley's patrol was a sea of mud,
broken by heaped earth and yawning shell-craters; strung about with
barbed wire entanglements, littered with equipments and with packs
which had been cut from or slipped from the shoulders of the wounded;
dotted more or less thickly with the bodies of British or German who
had fallen there and could not be reached alive by any stretcher-bearer
parties. Unpleasant as was the coming in contact with these bodies,
Ainsley knew that their being there was of considerable service to him.
He and his men crawled in a scattered line, and whenever the upward
trail of sparks showed that a flare was about to burst into light, the
whole party dropped and lay still until the light had burned itself
out. Any Germans looking out could only see their huddled forms lying
as still as the thickly scattered dead; could not know but what the
party was of their number.

It was necessary to move with the most extreme caution, because the
slightest motion might eaten the attention of a look-out, and would
certainly draw the fire of a score of rifles and probably of a
machine-gun. The first part of the journey was the worst, because they
had to cover a perfectly open piece of ground on their way to the
slight depression which Ainsley knew ran curling across the neutral
ground. Wide and shallow at the end nearest the British trench, this
depression narrowed and deepened as it ran slantingly towards the
German; halfway across, it turned abruptly and continued towards the
German side on another slant, and at a point about halfway between the
elbow and the German trench, came very close to an exploded
mine-crater, which was the objective of this night's patrol.

It was supposed, or at least suspected, that the mine-crater was being
made the starting-point of a tunnel to run under the British trench,
and Ainsley had been told off to find out if possible whether this
suspicion was correct, and if so to do what damage he could to the mine
entrance and the miners by bombing.

When his party reached the shallow depression, they moved cautiously
along it, and to Ainsley's relief reached the elbow in safety. Here
they were a good deal more protected from the German fire than they
could be at any point, because from here the depression was fully a
couple of feet deep and had its highest bank next the German trench.
Ainsley led his men at a fairly rapid crawl along the ditch, until he
had passed the point nearest to the mine-crater. Here he halted his
men, and with infinite caution crawled out to reconnoiter. The men, who
had been carefully instructed in the part they were to play, waited
huddling in silence under the bank for his return, or for the fusillade
of fire that would tell he was discovered. Immediately in front of the
crater was a patch of open ground without a single body lying in it;
and Ainsley knew that if he were seen lying there where no body had
been a minute before, the German who saw him would unhesitatingly place
a bullet in him. A bank of earth several feet high had been thrown up
by the mine explosion in a ring round the crater, and although this
covered him from the observation of the trench immediately behind the
mine, he knew that he could be seen from very little distance out on
the flank, and decided to abandon his crawling progress for once and
risk a quick dash across the open. For long he waited what seemed a
favorable moment, watched carefully in an endeavor to locate the nearer
positions in the German trench from which lights were being thrown up,
and to time the periods between them.

At last three lights were thrown and burned almost simultaneously