its mind and rend them if they loitered by the way. They had reached the fringe where the ‘Ego’ was whispering in their ears with insistent voice. They were alive; the others—they might be dead—what matter? They were alive.
“The wounded stared in front of them, except those in pain, and the prisoners looked cowed and miserable. The escorts walked with jaunty air, rifle slung, bayonets fixed, and exchanged jokes with all who would pay attention. The feeling of victory was still in their veins, for the slouching prisoners spurred their pride of race; were they not the symbol of all their friends ‘up there’ had done?
“The stretcher-bearers, intent on their work, passed the fringe of selfishness untouched. The bond of pain and suffering held them fast in unselfishness until the moment when they delivered their charge to the clearing-station in the rear. While other men hurried from the battlefield, these slowly and with aching arms and legs carried their burdens carefully. Human suffering must touch some special chord of self-sacrifice in man. Duty, discipline, and other self-taught virtues would never produce that careful studied plod of the stretcher-bearer under heavy shell-fire, or those deliberate halts to attend to their patients’ needs.
“Thus the second day passed. The Grenadiers were not called upon, but sat in the pit and watched the puppets moving on and off the stage. The Intelligence Officer had the critic’s box and made his notes. The night passed quietly and
slowly, the news filtered back that our friends in front had taken all their objectives and that all went well. The morning brought the fateful news that the 4th Battalion was under orders to take over the front line that night, and afterwards to attack. Every one was busy, even the Intelligence Officer, and the passing puppets moved unnoticed. The 4th Battalion prepared to leave the pit and occupy the stage.
“The third day passed quickly in preparation. At 4.30 in the afternoon the first platoon stepped on to the wooden pathway and moved up towards the front. The Intelligence Officer started last, with Battalion Headquarters, while the Commanding Officer and Adjutant and orderlies plodded off alone. The sun had set and it was growing dark. That ribbon of wood which led to the unknown had its advantages, for it gave a hard, though slippery, foothold; but, once you stepped upon it, you became its slave. The Path began to assume a sinister character, when ahead you saw it lead into a wood full of bursting shells. Then it took the form of an endless moving staircase, surely leading to destruction. The serpent of men moved into such a wood. The very name it bore was ominous. No one spoke. The Intelligence Officer noticed his throat was very dry. His heart pumped at the scream of each arriving shell. He continued to move forward as in a dream. At intervals he made way for stretcher cases. The flash of the bursting shells disclosed a row of gun-emplacements. Two gunners pinned under an overturned carriage screamed.
“Still Battalion Headquarters moved on—out of the wood into the open—away from death to what seemed like security. An odd shell or two burst near the path, while others shrieked their way overhead, dealing death somewhere behind. The mind neglected the latter, focussing all attention on the former. The pathway crossed two streams. By now the darkness was complete. A snorting, sobbing noise came from somewhere in front, succeeded by a splashing sound. The path went by a dark and slimy pool, in which the head and ears of a bogged horse waggled this way and that pathetically. Then all was still. A man’s figure could be dimly seen attempting to cut off the pack saddle before it was buried in the slough.
“The wooden track abruptly ended. A white tape feebly glimmered in the dark, hanging loosely between upright iron stakes, rifles driven muzzle down into the sodden soil, and portions of broken branches.
“The Intelligence Officer seized the tape and floundered slowly on. The men behind him breathed heavily, and in quiet tones cursed the water and the mud, the tape and the hand that laid it. Some one tripped. A halt was called. The obstruction proved to be a comrade, some flotsam from the men ahead. He was alive, warm, but inarticulate. A sergeant felt him over in the dark. Some one said, ‘My Gawd, Sir, ’e’s got it through the throat.’ The Intelligence Officer spoke words of promise to the man and left him there. ‘Outgoing troops would pick him up,’ and other well-worn words of
comfort, although he knew they might not see him. He felt he was leaving him to die. This is war.