On his left, in the darkness, he could make out the shadowy forms of trees; crawling on his hands and knees, stopping and crouching with fear at each shell-burst, he finally reached an old orchard, and cowered at the base of a shot-scarred apple-tree.
He remained there all night, listening to the sound of the guns and ever praying, praying that his useless life would be spared.
As dawn began to break, he could discern little dark objects protruding from the ground all about him. Curiosity mastered his fear and he crawled to one of the objects, and there, in the uncertain light, he read on a little wooden cross:
“Pte. H.S. Wheaton, No. 1670, 1st London Regt. R.F. Killed in action, April 25, 1916. R.I.P.” (Rest in Peace).
When it dawned on him that he had been hiding all night in a cemetery, his reason seemed to leave him, and a mad desire to be free from it all made him rush madly away, falling over little wooden crosses, smashing some and trampling others under his feet.
In his flight, he came to an old French dugout, half caved in, and partially filled with slimy and filthy water.
Like a fox being chased by the hounds, he ducked into this hole, and threw himself on a pile of old empty sandbags, wet and mildewed. Then—unconsciousness.
On the next day, he came to; far distant voices sounded in his ears. Opening his eyes, in the entrance of the dugout he saw a Corporal and two men with fixed bayonets.
The Corporal was addressing him:
“Get up, you white-livered blighter! Curse you and the day you ever joined ‘D’ Company, spoiling their fine record! It’ll be you up against the wall, and a good job too. Get a hold of him, men, and if he makes a break, give him the bayonet, and send it home, the cowardly sneak. Come on, you, move, we’ve been looking for you long enough.”