gainst the few clods of earth he had erected with his
entrenching tool, and which went by the high-sounding name of "head
cover."

And then, one day a howitzer shell had landed in the dug-out where he
was lunching with his three particular friends. When the men of his
company cleared the sandbags away from him, he was a gibbering wreck,
unwounded but paralysed, and splashed with the blood of three dead men.

Now, after months of battle dreams and mad terror, of massage and
electrical treatment, he was faced with the question--"Do you feel quite
fit for active service again?"

He was tired to death of staying at home with no apparent complaint, he
was sick of light duty with his reserve battalion, he wanted to be out
at the front again with the men and officers he knew ... and yet,
supposing his nerve went again, supposing he lost his self-control....

Finally, however, he looked up. "Yes, sir," he said, "I feel fit for
anything now--quite fit."

* * * * *

Three months later the Medical Officer sat talking to the C.O. in the
Headquarter dug-out.

"As for old Dymond," he said, "he ought never to have been sent out here
again. He's done his bit already, and they ought to have given him a
'cushy' job at home, instead of one of those young staff blighters"--for
the M.O. was no respecter of persons, and even a "brass hat" failed to
awe him.

"Can't you send him down the line?" said the C.O. "This is no place for
a man with neurasthenia. God! did you see the way his hand shook when he
was in here just now?"

"And he's a total abstainer now, poor devil," sighed the Doctor with
pity, for he was, himself, fond of his drop of whisky. "I'll send him
down to the dressing station to-morrow with a note telling the R.A.M.C.
people there that he wants a thorough change."

"Good," said the C.O. "I'm very sorry he's got to go, for he's a jolly
good officer. However, it can't be helped. Have another drink, Doc."

It is bad policy to refuse the offer of a senior officer, and the M.O.
was a man with a thirst, so he helped himself with liberality. Before
he had raised the glass to his lips, the sudden roar of many bursting
shells caused him to jump to his feet. "Hell!" he growled. "Another
hate. More dirty work at the cross roads." And he hurried off to the
little dug-out that served him as a dressing station, his beloved drink
standing untouched on the table.

Meanwhile, Roger Dymond crouched up