y this time the cries of the wounded added to the terrors of the
scene. Each time we jumped into a shell-hole, we turned to watch the
men leap in. Each time it seemed that a new face appeared, and the
absence of those who had jumped into the last shell-hole was only too
significant.

But, undaunted by their falling comrades, each man, in his turn,
leaped forward and would lie gasping for breath until his turn came
for another effort.

Farman was the first to speak. It was his turn to take the next leap:

"I don't think it really matters. There's a hole about thirty yards
away; I think I'll go straight for that."

He got up and walked leisurely across, as though inviting the death
which seemed inevitable. He stopped at the shell-hole, and for a
moment seemed to be looking down undecided whether to jump in or not.

I shouted at him:

"Don't be a damned fool; jump!"

The next moment a shell burst between us, and I fell back into the
shell-hole. When I again looked out and my eyes could penetrate the
smoke, I saw no sign of Farman. I yelled, and to my intense relief I
saw his head appear. He was safe!

Again and again the last paragraph of my orders seemed to be blazing
in front of me, and like a hidden hand from that dark inferno of
horrors, kept beckoning me forward, "AT ANY COST! AT ANY COST!"

Yes; this must be the end; but it's hell to die in a wood.

The men used to call it Lousy Wood. What do they call it now? They
were brave fellows; and they were only civilian soldiers, too! They
used to be volunteers once. People would laugh, and call them Saturday
afternoon soldiers.

Reviews in Hyde Park used to be a joke, and the comic papers
caricatured these men, and used them as material for their jests.

They were only Territorials! That man, panting hard at the bottom of
the shell-hole, and still clutching at his rifle, is a bank clerk;
that man who fell at the last jump, with his stomach ripped up, was a
solicitor's clerk.

Look at the others. Their faces are pale; their eyes are bulging. But
they are the same faces one used to see in Cornhill and Threadneedle
Street.

Yes, they are only Territorials! But here in this filthy wood they are
damned proud of it.

And what is taking place in England to-day?

Is it really true that while all this is going on in Leuze Wood,
orchestras are playing sweet music in brilliantly lighted restaurants
in London--while a gluttonous crowd eat of the fat of the land? Is