cation of enemy activity gazed frenziedly rearward at
the nearest line for a headlong retreat. One in perhaps every hundred.

Fear, the instinct to guard life; the warning of danger; the
all-absorbing sense of primitive ancestors who have handed down an
almost uncontrollable Fear of the Unknown, indelibly imprinted upon the
brain and imbibed into the very blood from centuries of fearful watch
upon the Death that came out of the Darkness.

The fear of death overcome, there grasps the young warrior in a sudden
frenzy the revelation that in some critical moment he "might funk it."
There lies the crux of it. Afraid that he might BE AFRAID and bring upon
him from the lips of those whose opinions he values most the fatal slur
"Coward." For death is far better than that those men who have placed
upon you--and you upon them--the implicit reliance of MAN for MAN,
should find you wanting in the test and pass sentence upon you that a
lifetime regret could not one whit abate.

Two hundred, perhaps three hundred, yards from the Front Line a Fritz
blockhouse (a concrete, more or less shell-proof fortress, impervious to
rifle and machine gun fire, utilised on a large scale by the Germans and
garrisoned with machine guns) held an advantageous position bearing on
the lines of communication leading up from Masnieres, thereby playing
pretty havoc upon ration parties and all movement within focus of the
enemy machine-gunners.

It HAD to be taken, without artillery support. The Ten Hundred were
nearly let in for the job, but owing to alteration of date the
Lancashire Fusiliers had the onus upon them.

Surprise was the great deciding factor.

It failed! Creeping over through the night one half of the journey was
accomplished ... in one piercing whine of spiteful machine-gun fire
Fritz almost wiped out the first wave. For an hour the British tried
again and again with constantly refilling gaps, while upon them was
turned every German machine gun in the area. From half a mile away the
creeping line of advance could be gauged by the tone of firing. Higher,
higher, in one mad high-pitched shriek, ten thousand shots in one minute
from twenty or more enemy machine-guns sang and hummed in the inky pall.
The high key lowered; the mind pictured the khaki line retreating,
reforming--forward again. Then up again the shrill staccato; line
drawing nearer. Higher, faster, louder the Satanic scream of lead.
Higher, still higher! The head throbbed, be