The English army had, for the time being, occupied the trenches from which they had driven the Germans, and for a moment they were safe. The enemy was moving away towards a distant hill, but a huge rearguard was on the alert.
The commanding officer knew that although a slight advantage had been gained, pursuit would be madness, so, taking advantage of the enemies' trenches, they decided to await further events.
To Bob, the whole day seemed like a dream. His encounter with the German private was like the memory of some event which had taken place long, long ago. All the same, it was a wonder to him that he was alive and unwounded.
All around him lay men in various positions; some never to rise again; some, even if they recovered, to be mutilated for life. Only now and then did the rearguard of the enemy's army reveal its whereabouts, but all knew that thousands of men were waiting for any advantage which might be given to them.
The day was fast dying, and whatever little wind there had been had nearly sunk to rest.
"Hello, Nancarrow! you here?"
"Pickford! Great heavens, man, whoever thought of seeing you!"
It was an old school-fellow who spoke to Bob. They had been four years together at Clifton, and Pickford had been on the military side of the school.
When Bob had gone up to Oxford, Pickford had left for Sandhurst. They had last seen each other on what they called their breaking-up row at the school. Both of them had been as wild as March hares, and they with a hundred others had yelled like mad at the thought of their school days being over.
Now they had met on French soil, amidst carnage and the welter of blood, at the close of a day which would ever live in Bob's memory.