My poor Biddy, he thought. How will you bear it, Biddy?

The watch ticked on. But I am a battalion commander, he thought. Men are watching me. Men are waiting for me. We have to cross a bridge. To cross a bridge. A bridge.

Colonel Pothecary rose to his feet. He could see the upturned faces all about him, he could feel the suspense of the men waiting in folds and crannies in the ground.

He walked, easily and unhurriedly, along the uphill track, his cane tucked under his right arm. Men saw him smiling at them, a confident, beckoning smile. They saw him stoop, pick a white flower from a hedgerow and fasten it, without haste, in his lapel. Everywhere in the meadow men rose and moved forward with him.

The colonel strode calmly along the road as if he were walking on to a parade ground, looking back sometimes to call encouragement to his men, ignoring the bullets that squealed about him and kicked up little devils of earth at his feet.

He was crossing the bridge now, with men streaming after him. It was as if he had, by his own physical strength, lifted the battalion up out of the ground and borne them with him.

The bridge was behind him and he felt turf underfoot. Ahead of him was a sudden dip; dead ground, safe ground. Into the exultant dream there intruded the consciousness of safety, of survival. Colonel Pothecary began to run.

The men behind him saw the cane drop from his right hand. He ran on, heavily, for a couple of paces, and pitched to the ground. The men who had crossed the bridge with him plunged blindly past him to safety. A couple stopped in shame, seized his arms and dragged him with them.

There were no more men crossing the bridge. The machine guns were masters again. What was left of the battalion had gone to ground.

A handful of men cowered in the hollow on the far side of the bridge. Colonel Pothecary lay among them, breathing heavily, his eyes closed.

A sergeant knelt over him. The colonel began to snore loudly and mumble unintelligibly. The sergeant bent lower, his ear close to the colonel’s mouth. The colonel opened his eyes and looked up without recognition. He tried to raise himself; he put one arm up about the sergeant’s neck and pulled himself up.

‘My poor Biddy,’ he said, very clearly, and fell back dead.

Radiotelephone message, Fifth Battalion to Brigade Headquarters, thirteen-forty hours:

Attack held up on start point. Leading troops under very heavy machine-gun, mortar and artillery fire. Battalion commander killed. Not possible for leading troops to advance.

Brigade Headquarters to Fifth Battalion, thirteen-forty-six hours:

Advance to crossroads two hundred yards beyond river.

Fifth Battalion to Brigade Headquarters; fourteen-ten hours:

Forward troops under heavy fire and still on this side (behind) river. Fired on from woods to south-west.

Brigade Headquarters to Fifth Battalion, fourteen-fifteen hours: