nife-rest" barbed-wire
entanglements were lying just behind the trench, ready to be hoisted
over the parapet and joined together in a continuous defensive line as
soon as the night was sufficiently dark.

One by one the members of Number Nine Platoon squelched--for it had
rained hard all day--back to the reserve line. They were utterly
exhausted, and still inclined to feel a little aggrieved at having
been pulled out from rest; but they were well content. They had done
the State some service, and they knew it; and they knew that the
higher powers knew it too. There would be some very flattering reading
in Divisional Orders in a few days' time.

Meanwhile, their most pressing need was for something to eat. To be
sure, every man had gone into action that morning carrying his day's
rations. But the British soldier, improvident as the grasshopper,
carries his day's rations in one place, and one place only--his
stomach. The Hairy Jocks had eaten what they required at their
extremely early breakfast: the residue thereof they had abandoned.

About midnight Master Cockerell, in obedience to a most welcome order,
led the remnants of his command, faint but triumphant, back from the
reserve line to a road junction two miles in rear, known as Dead Dog
Corner. Here the Battalion was to _rendezvous_, and march back by easy
stages to St. Gregoire. Their task was done.

But at the cross-roads Number Nine Platoon found no Battalion: only a
solitary subaltern, with his orderly. This young Casabianca informed
Cockerell that he, Second Lieutenant Candlish, had been left behind to
"bring in stragglers."

"Stragglers?" exclaimed the infuriated Cockerell. "Do we look like
stragglers?"

"No," replied the youthful Candlish frankly; "you look more like
sweeps. However, you had better push on. The Battalion isn't far
ahead. The order is to march straight back to St. Gregoire and
re-occupy former billets."

"What about rations?"

"Rations? The Quartermaster was waiting here for us when we
_rendezvoused_, and every man had a full ration and a tot of rum."
(Number Nine Platoon cleared their parched throats expectantly.) "But
I fancy he has gone on with the column. However, if you leg it you
should catch them up. They can't be more than two miles ahead. So
long!"

IV

But the task was hopeless. Number Nine Platoon had been bombing,
hacking, and digging all day. Several of them were slightly
wounded--the serious cases had been taken o