‘Who are ye?’

‘Westshires!’ they shouted, and moved on, to meet a corporal and three men of the Gordons. They knew nothing of the rest of their battalion. They were lost, but they thought one of their companies had reached the front line. These four Gordons were four of the quickest and coolest men you could meet. There was some anxiety in the expression of their eyes, but it was only anxiety as to what they should do. Mr Finch ordered them to stay with him; and almost immediately they heard some egg-bombs. Some Huns were searching the trench. Sergeant Tozer, with the same party, went forward immediately. As soon as some egg-bombs had burst in the next bay, they rushed it, and flung into the next. They found and bayoneted a Hun, and pursued the others some little distance, before they doubled back on their tracks again. Then Mr Finch took them back to the German front line, intending to stay there until he could link up with other parties. The fog was only a little less thick than the mud; but if it had been one of the principal causes of their failure, it helped them now. The Hun could not guess at their numbers; and there must have been several isolated parties playing the same game of hide-and-seek. The question for Mr Finch to decide was whether they should remain there. They searched the front line to the left, and found nothing but some dead, Huns and Gordons.

Bourne was with the Gordons who had joined them, and one of them, looking at the blood on his sleeve and hands, touched him on the shoulder.

‘Mon, are ye hurt?’ he whispered gently.

‘No. I’m not hurt, chum,’ said Bourne, shaking his head slowly, and then he shuddered and was silent. His face became empty and expressionless.

Their own barrage had moved forward again; but they could not get into touch with any of their own parties. Then, to show how little he knew about what was happening, Fritz began to shell his own front line. They had some casualties immediately; a man called Adams was killed, and Minton was slightly wounded in the shoulder by a splinter. It was quite clear by this time that the other units had failed to penetrate even the first line. To remain where they were was useless, and to go forward was to invite either destruction or capture.

‘Sergeant,’ said Mr Finch, with a bitter resolution, ‘we shall go back.’

Sergeant Tozer looked at him quietly.

‘You’re wounded, sir,’ he said, kindly. ‘If you go back with Minton, I could hang on a bit longer, and then take the men back on my own responsibility.

‘I’ll be buggered if I go back with only a scratch, and leave you to stick it. You’re a bloody sportsman, Sergeant. You’re the best bloody lot o’ men …’

His words trailed off shakily into nothing for a moment.

‘That’s all right, sir,’ said Sergeant Tozer, quietly; and then he added with an angry laugh: ‘We’ve done all we could: I don’t care a fuck what the other bugger says.’