d in the
air, letting go a hideous yell. I ran to him, disregarding the
instruction not to stop to help any one. He was struck in the
abdomen with an explosive bullet and was done for. I felt terribly
about Mr. Blofeld, as he had been a good friend to me. He was the
finest type of officer of the new English army, the rare sort who
can be democratic and yet command respect. He had talked with me
often, and I knew of his family and home life. He was more like an
elder brother to me than a superior officer. I left Mr. Blofeld and
went on.

The hail of bullets grew even worse. They whistled and cracked and
squealed, and I began to wonder why on earth I didn't get mine. Men
were falling on all sides and the shrieks of those hit were the
worst I had heard. The darkness made it worse, and although I had
been over the top before by daylight this was the last limit of
hellishness. And nothing but plain, unmixed machine-gun fire. As
yet there was no artillery action to amount to anything.

Once again I put my hand inside my tunic and stroked Dinky and said
to him, "For God's sake, Dink, see me through this time." I meant
it too. I was actually praying,--to my mascot. I realize that this
was plain, unadulterated, heathenish fetish worship, but it shows
what a man reverts to in the barbaric stress of war.

By this time we were within about thirty yards of the Boche parapet
and could see them standing shoulder to shoulder on the fire step,
swarms of them, packed in, with the bayonets gleaming. Machine
guns were emplaced and vomiting death at incredibly short intervals
along the parapet. Flares were going up continuously, and it was
almost as light as day.

We were terribly outnumbered, and the casualties had already been
so great that I saw we were in for the worst thing we had ever
known. Moreover, the next waves hadn't appeared behind us.

I was in command, as all the officers and non-coms so far as I
could make out had snuffed. I signalled to halt and take cover, my
idea being to wait for the other waves to catch up. The men needed
no second invitation to lie low. They rolled into the shell holes
and burrowed where there was no cover.

I drew a pretty decent hole myself, and a man came pitching in on
top of me, screaming horribly. It was Corporal Hoskins, a close
friend of mine. He had it in the stomach and clicked in a minute or
two.

During the few minutes that I lay in that hole, I suffered the
worst mental anguish