"Yes—an' we're moving back north-west now. Why?"
"Dunno. 'E's got round some'ow to the south."
An hour or undisturbed quiet. Nothing could be seen, no shells (his artillery was unable to keep pace with the rapidity of advance), no gas. Then through the silence, from nowhere it seemed, a half-spent bullet whistled and buried itself with a spiteful "phut." After a pause ... a whine, accompanied by others, falling short. In the distance his machine-gunners and advanced screen of scouts appeared ... the whining merged into a constant buzzing, men coughed furiously and bent forward, fell awkwardly ... straightened out. Here and there a khaki figure clutched fiercely at tufts of grass, writhed feverishly in one last desperate fight for breath, looked a sad farewell at their living comrades—a glance that went straight to the heart—and went their way into the warrior's hall in Valhalla.
From far down the flank a further movement rearward could be noticed spreading yard by yard until once more, weary of spirit, worn, hungry, you stood up somewhere in the stream of lead and retired.
At nightfall he would be out of view. By morning his advanced posts would be sniping at the thin khaki line. Night ... an ebony pall pierced by a score of brilliant burning houses. Fantastic, grotesque. Crimson glows upon which tired eyes rested unthinking, uncaring, the mind worn under the ceaseless repetition: "When will we stop?", "Why don't they let us fight it out? God, we'd make a mess of him anyhow." Then someone would address no one in particular:
"Wonder 'ow many we 'ave left?"
"Gawd knows. About a 'undred an' fifty."
"See 'im toppling our lads out at Verbequie?"
"Yes. An' by that meadow gate. It makes me blood boil to think they won't let us 'ave a go at 'im."
"Ah, well. I s'pose it will be my turn to-morrow."