were thinking of yourself at the time, you certainly did," I
answered as I prepared myself for battle, for nothing sets your nerves
right again as quickly as a "scrap."

We were interrupted, however, in the preliminaries by the
Sergeant-major, who brought with him a handful of letters and pay books,
the effects of the poor fellows who were now lying under waterproof
sheets in the support trench.

"Total killed forty-one, sir, and I'm afraid Sergeant Wall didn't get
down to the dressing station in time. It's a bad day for us to-day. Oh,
and by the way, sir, that fellow Spiller has just been found dead at the
end of the communicating trench."

"Which end, Sergeant-major?" I asked.

"The further end, sir. He left the trench without leave. He told Jones,
who was next to him, that he was not going to have any more damned
shelling, and he appears to have made off immediately after."

Bennett whistled. "Is that the blighter whom poor old Hayes had to
threaten with his revolver the day before we were gassed?"

The Sergeant-major nodded.

"It's just the sort of thing he would do," said Bennett, whose hand was
still unsteady from the strain of an hour ago, "to bunk when Brother
Boche is giving us a little crumping to keep us amused."

I turned to the Sergeant-major. "Let me have these fellows' effects," I
said. "As to Spiller, I don't expect he could have really been bunking.
At all events, let the other fellows think I sent him to Headquarters
and he got hit on the way. I expect he was going down with a stretcher
party." But, in my heart, I knew better. I knew Spiller for a coward.

It is not for me to judge such a man. God knows it is no man's fault if
he is made so that his nerves may fail him at a critical moment.
Besides, many a man who is capable of heroism that would win him the
Victoria Cross fails when called upon to stand more than a few weeks of
trench warfare, for a few minutes of heroism are very different to
months of unrelieved strain. However, Spiller and his like let a
regiment down, and one is bound to despise them for that.

Thoughts of our "scrap" had entirely left us, for Bennett and I had
before us one of the most uncongenial tasks that an officer can have.
The news has to be broken by someone when a wife is suddenly made a
widow, and the task is generally taken on by the dead man's platoon
commander, who sends back home his letters and papers. There were many
men who had died that afternoon, and