I jumped into a shell-hole, and found myself within ten yards of my objective. My three remaining runners jumped in alongside of me. They were Arnold, Dobson, and Wilkinson.
Arnold was done for! He looked up at me with eyes staring and face blanched, and panted out that he could go no farther, and I realised that I could count on him no more.
I glanced to the left, just in time to see three Germans not five yards away, and one after the other jump from a shell-hole which formed a sort of bay to their trench, and run away.
Wishing to save the ammunition in my revolver for the hand-to-hand scuffle which seemed imminent, I seized the rifle of Arnold and fired. I missed all three; my hand was shaky.
What was I to do next? The company on my left had disappeared; the trench just in front of me was occupied by the Boches. I had with me three runners, one of whom was helpless, and in the next shell-hole about six men, the sole survivors of my company.
Where were the supports? Anxiously I glanced back toward the wood; why did they not come?
Poor fellows, I did not know it at the time, but the hand of death had dealt with them even more heavily in the wood than it had with us.
My position was desperate. I could not retire. My orders were imperative: "You must reach your objective at any cost." I must get there somehow. But even if we got there, how long could I hope to hold out with such a handful of men?
Immediate support I must have; I must take risks. I turned to brave Dobson and Wilkinson:
"Message to the supports: 'Send me two platoons quickly; position critical.'"