"All right. Well, I'll be off; cheer oh! old chap."
"Good-bye, Barton. Good luck!"
I never saw Barton again! I heard some months afterwards that he fell, riddled with machine-gun bullets whilst leading his men into the subsequent attack.
"Pass the word for No. 8 Platoon commander," I ordered, wishing to ascertain if the last platoon had arrived.
A young sergeant came up at the double, and saluted.
"I am in command, sir."
His tone and manner inspired me immensely. Notwithstanding all the danger we had passed through, he seemed to be full of ginger and pride at finding himself in command of the platoon.
"Where is Mr. Chislehirst, then?" I asked.
"Wounded, sir, in the wood; shot through the chest. The last I saw of him he was giving another wounded man a drink from his water-bottle."
"All right; do you understand your orders?"