Advance to crossroads two hundred yards beyond river.

Fifth Battalion to Brigade; fifteen-oh-five hours:

Not possible for leading troops to move.

Brigade to Battalion, fifteen-ten hours:

Advance to crossroads.

Battalion headquarters was a pit about six feet square and five feet deep, partially covered by a sheet of tarpaulin. Major Norman sat in the pit with a private of the signals platoon who huddled over the radiotelephone set.

Norman scribbled desperately and passed a message to the operator. The man spoke softly into the microphone. They waited, while the ground shook to the German cannonade. The radiotelephone began to quack.

‘Reserves,’ said Norman bitterly as he studied the reply, ‘we’ve got no reserves. Our cooks and clerks are out there fighting now. Tell them we want more men. We want tanks. We want more artillery.’

Quack. Quack. Quack.

‘God Almighty,’ said Norman, ‘what do they want? We’re men, not walking miracles.’

Quack. Quack. Quack.

‘The Brigadier,’ said the operator, ‘for you.’

Norman took the earphones and listened. His face flushed darkly as the earphones quacked at him. He straightened up suddenly, cursing, tipped his steel helmet forward a little, picked up a machine carbine that lay at his side, and clambered up into the open.

He hurried uphill, among the crouching groups of men.

‘Up,’ he shouted in his thin, lashing voice as he came among them, ‘up on your feet.’

He moved among the men, careless of the enemy’s fire, ordering them forward. Bitter and despairing, he lashed at them with words, threatened with his gun, used his boots sometimes on men clinging to the ground. The most resolute of the men, who had been held back only by the fear of going forward alone, rose to their feet again. Officers and n.c.o.s, seeing him approach, led or drove their men forward. Tired, bitter and despairing, the remnants of the Fifth Battalion streamed towards the river.

Battle has its own strange chemistry. The courage and endurance of a group of men is greater than the sum total of the courage and endurance of the individuals in the group; for, when most of the group have reached the limits of human endeavour, there is always one among them who can surpass those limits, who will hold the others together and drive them on. It is not the romantic picture of war; but it is the truth of war.

And broken men, thus driven forward, can become – at the last pitch of exhaustion – whole and strong again; for movement generates its own strange inspiration.