They did as I directed, their faces turned anxiously toward me, wondering what was up.
"New operation orders just arrived from headquarters; previous orders cancelled. We are to advance through the wood and attack from the inside of the square."
I hurriedly read the whole of the orders over to them, and they listened silently.
"Go back to your platoons. The men are to be dressed in battle order by 2.50—it's now 2.30—by 3 P.M. the platoons are to be closed up along the trench, and the leading platoon will enter the wood in single file, other platoons following."
As I glanced up I noticed their faces were pale; they were listening intently, but uttering no sound. They were receiving orders; they realised their responsibility, and they knew their duty.
The last paragraph was underlined. I hurriedly read it and looked up at them again:
"Just one more thing," I said. "These are my orders underlined:
"You must reach your objective at any cost. If driven back, you are to make a stand at the edge of the wood, and hold out till the last man falls."
It sounded like a death sentence, a forecast of the hour of trial which we were to face. Only those who have received such orders on the field of battle can realise what it feels like.
In those few dramatic moments we counted our lives as lost. We recognised how desperate was our task. Success we might hope for; but failure we must pay the price of. We must fight till the last man falls—and yet we were merely civilian soldiers.