‘This problem had yet to be solved.
‘However, we plugged into the trenches, and he started on his new job. He was “jumpy” a little, and felt at sea. But he was a sticker. Above all, he was cheerful. He kept the men happy—fought like a devil with the quartermaster about his company’s rations, saw to the rum, stole wood for his men’s fires, robbed the A.S.C. of coal and coke, made braziers out of biscuit-boxes, and organised concerts under heavy bombardments. He wasn’t afraid to grouse, but he never bucked at a job.
‘We did feel immensely grateful.
‘Next, the great offensive. What a day! The barrage of the enemy was sheer murder; but he leaped over the bags like a fine British gentleman, and kept his eye on the OBJECTIVE. The C.O. was killed, the major was killed, company commanders were wounded, and the New Man found he was alone.
‘His hour had come.
‘Some weak fool shouted, “Retire!” but the New Man clapped a revolver to the demoralised man’s ear and said, “Go on.” He went! The weaker were impressed; the brave were thrilled. Old Army sergeants vowed he was “the goods,” and loyally backed him up. And on through hell, through death, and a blood-soaked shambles went the New Crusader with his battalion. The objective was reached, but we had only three hundred men instead of a thousand. There were no bombs, little ammunition, no water, no rations, and the men were absolutely done. All round were the bursting shells, the spluttering maxims, the choking gas, and the agonies of war. His flanks were in the air, but he extended his thin line, sent back the runners, dug in, and opened fire.
‘On came the Germans.
‘But the God of all men was on his side. Providence protects the brave. His fame had trickled down the line, and anxious generals vowed he would be supported. Company after company was slaughtered in the attempt. Then up came the Guards—the flower of British chivalry. The Old Crusaders were determined that the New would not be surrounded, jabbed, and crucified. Through that cruel barrage they tramped as if on parade.
‘And while they were advancing, the New Man, though weary, wounded, and blood-stained, was fighting a dauntless battle. Three hundred men had dropped to two hundred. His flanks were burst. He was almost surrounded. The bayonets of Potsdam were glittering at his breast, but he cried, “Fight on—fight on! No damn surrender to these Huns!”