The note was timed 3.40 P.M. It was now 4.30 P.M. The colonel was never more collected or more rapid in acting than at this moment. In two minutes he had spoken to the Infantry brigadier, and asked whether immediate assistance could not be sent. Then he wrote this note to Major Harville—
"Your message timed 3.40 P.M. received at 4.30 P.M.
"Hold on: you are doing splendidly, and counter-attacks are being organised.
"Teams with limbers to withdraw your guns to rear position by 8 P.M. are being sent for."
"I hope the counter-attack is in time," he said to me with a certain sad thoughtfulness before handing the note to the bombardier. "Do you think you can get back to the battery, bombardier?" he added. "I'm afraid you'll find more Boche there now."
"I'll try, sir," replied the bombardier stoutly.
"Off you go then, but be careful!"
In the period of waiting that followed we seemed to have forgotten that three hours ago we were expecting every minute to have to turn out and face the Boche with rifle and revolver. Save for the colonel and two or three of the signallers and a couple of servants, none of us were experienced soldiers; all our previous experience had been in attack; it was something new this feeling that a powerful, energetic, determined foe was beating down our opposition and getting nearer and nearer. Yet, whatever they may have felt, not one of our little band showed signs of depression or nervous excitement. The signalling-sergeant was cursing the sanitary orderly for not having cleared up a particular litter of tins and empty cigarette packets; the officers' cook was peeling potatoes for dinner, and I heard the old wheeler singing softly to himself some stupid, old-time, music-hall ditty.
In the mess no one spoke a word, but each of us knew that our one thought was whether A battery would be able to hold out.
5.30 P.M.: The answer, a grim and saddening one. A sergeant came hurrying in.