"Before the curing of a strange disease,
Even in the instant of repair and health,
The fit is strongest; evils that take leave,
On their departure most of all show evil."
"And I hope you're right," said Ralph. "There seems no doubt that the Huns are getting properly whacked. It'll be a tough job for some time, but they're on the down grade."
"To quote the bard again:
He that stands upon a slippery place
Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up.
You know, Mr. Setley, since I've been out here I firmly believe that Will Shakespeare must have foreseen this business. How appropriate many of his quotations are! However, quoting Shakespeare won't get this blessed machine-gun re-assembled, so here goes.
Before the day was out persistent rumours passed from man to man that the Great Push was to attain its culminating point—or, at least, a terrific intensity—on the following Monday. The guns had allowed the enemy no rest. On a front of twenty miles tons and tons of shells were being pumped into the Hun lines. It was a bombardment that presaged an infantry advance on a large scale, and that meant that the Tanks were to play a conspicuous part.
On the evening prior to the longed-for day rumour gave place to certainty. The advance was definitely fixed. Come storm or sunshine, mud or dust, the khaki-clad infantry were to go over the top at the hour of five-thirty. Every available Tank was to cooperate; once the positions were won the Tank commanders were to exercise their discretion in pushing on, keeping within the limits and following up the British artillery barrage.
At the final conference, the officers of the Tank Division pored over their maps and listened to elaborate but simply explained instructions from the C.O. The principle objective during the first phase of the advance was the Von der Golz Redoubt. The most practicable means of approach was pointed out—a circuitous route that first meant the occupation of the nest of fortified ruins that at one time formed the village of Néancourt.
"Gain that, gentlemen," concluded the C.O., "and your raison d'être is achieved. Afterwards you can rely upon your own judgment."
Setley, like many others, sat up late that night. There was much to be done on the eve of the battle. He had done it many times before, but there was always the same sort of ritual to be undertaken in case he "went West." The frequency with which he got his personal belongings together, and wrote a farewell letter home, to be forwarded in the event of anything happening, was becoming monotonous. He dreaded the preliminaries, although he knew that the moment the order for advance was received and the Tank set in motion all fears on that score would be flung to the winds and absorbed by the exhilaration of the battle.