he aid they would not ask for. Soldiers all.
And the Germans now pouring in in waves from all sides, and especially
from our unprotected flanks and rear, hindered only by the desultory
rifle fire of our two weakened companies in the support trenches. We
were receiving rifle fire from four directions and bayonet thrusts
from the Germans on the parapet. Mowed down like sheep. And as they
came on they trampled our dead and bayoneted our wounded.

The machine-gun crew had gone under to a man, doing their best to the
last. I think Sergeant Whitehead went with them, too; at least he was
near there a short time before, and I never saw him or any of the gun
crew again. The only living soul near that spot was Royston, dragging
himself out from under a pile of debris and covered with mud and
blood, his face horribly swollen to twice its normal size, blinded for
the moment.

To quote "Canada in Flanders" again:

"At this time the bombardment recommenced with great intensity. The
German bombardment had been so heavy since May 4th that a wood which
the Regiment had used in part for cover was completely demolished. The
range of our machine-guns was taken with extreme precision. All,
without exception, were buried. Those who served them behaved with the
most admirable coolness and gallantry. Two were dug out, mounted and
used again. One was actually disinterred three times and kept in
action till a shell annihilated the whole section. Corporal Dover
stuck to his gun throughout and, although wounded, continued to
discharge his duties with as much coolness as if on parade. In the
explosion that ended his ill-fated gun, he lost a leg and an arm, and
was completely buried in the debris. Conscious or unconscious, he lay
there in that condition until dusk, when he crawled out of all that
was left of the obliterated trench and moaned for help. Two of his
comrades sprang from the support trench--by this time the fire
trench--and succeeded in carrying in his mangled and bleeding body.
But as all that remained of this brave soldier was being lowered into
the trench a bullet put an end to his sufferings. No bullet could put
an end to his glory."

George Easton was firing with me at the gray mass of the oncoming
horde. "My rifle's jammed!" he cried.

"Take mine." And I stooped to get one from a casualty underfoot. But a
moment later, as I fired from the parapet, my bayonet was broken off
by a German bullet. I shouted wildly to Cosh to toss