They were not very trim just now; their hands are grimy as they clutch at their rifles, undaunted by the terrors they have already passed through and the sight of their fallen comrades left groaning in the wood.
There they are, extended and lying flat on the ground, waiting further orders. They have come through one hell by the skin of their teeth, and are patiently looking into another hell; their lives were counted by minutes, these office men. But their eyes were fixed on the far side of the square trench which was to be their objective; unless by God's will, and for the sake of England, they found an earlier one.
London men! Some may call you "only Territorials." Training has been your hobby; but fighting was never your profession.
What will England think of this? England may never know.
Who ever heard of Leuze Wood before? If a man is killed in England there is an inquest. People read about it in the papers.
Are the people left behind in England suffering hardships uncomplainingly, and gritting their teeth like you are? You are only getting a bob a day. England needs you; you are masters. Why don't you strike at this critical moment?
No, my lads; you are made of different stuff. You are men! There are those in England this day who work for England's cause; there are others who are enriching themselves by your absence; there are homes which will feel your sacrifice.
You have seen the wasted homes and the ghastly outrages in France; and between that picture and the green fields of England you must make your stand; those in England will depend upon you this day.
Zero hour is at hand. Agonies, mutilation, and death are within a few yards of you. There will be no pictures of your deeds; there are no flags or trumpets to inspire you; you are lying on the dirty ground on the edge of Leuze Wood, with hell in front of you, and hell behind you—hell in those trenches on the left, hell in those trenches on the right.
One more minute and you will stand up and walk into it. My lads! It's for England!