e signallers, the brigade
clerks, the two wireless operators, who had nothing whatever to do, and
most of the servants, telling them to get as much sleep as possible.
The colonel's servant was still in the quarry guarding our castaway
kit; my own servant I had stationed on the canal bridge so that he
could report to me as soon as the sergeant-major and the rescuing
waggon hove in sight.

Our discovery of the buried cable running under the canal had a sequel
equally welcome. One of the telephone linemen said he believed there
was another "bury" on the far side of the railway cutting, and that it
connected with the back areas. The signalling-sergeant and myself set
out on another hunt, and, joy! we discovered, after patient test calls
with a D.III. telephone, that by speaking through two exchanges we
could communicate with our own Divisional H.Q. It was six hundred yards
from the railway cutting, but I could now keep in touch with the
colonel in front, the batteries to right and left of me along the
railway, and the brigadier-general and the brigade-major in rear.

1 A.M.: My work for the moment was complete and I could take it easy. I
stood outside the test-box that had become a sort of Brigade H.Q. and
listened to the waspish crack of our 18-pdrs. sending defiance to the
enemy. The six signallers--plus a terrier--had crowded into the tiny
sandbag shelter that protected the test-box. One of them, receiver to
ear, waited for calls, a candle stuck on an inverted mess-tin shedding
sufficient light for the pencilling of messages. The others sprawled in
cramped positions, snuggled one against another for warmth, and sought
sleep. The doings of the Boche seemed more puzzling than ever. What was
happening on the other side of the canal? Five hours ago he had
captured a strong post within 1800 yards of the spot on which I now
stood, and we had no reserve lines of infantry in front of him. Why
this strange quiescence? And then my mind took another turn. What had
become of the sergeant-major with the waggon that was to gather up our
left kit? Why did he take such a long time? I thought bitterly of my
field boots, and the British warm I was beginning to want, and the new
jacket and breeches, all in my valise. Why hadn't I put on my best pair
of leggings to come away in? The Boche would have been welcome to the
older ones I was wearing; besides, they didn't fit so well as the pair
left in the quarry.

The little American doctor s