Further back there were a couple of Archies and a battery of eighteen-pounders.

Our instructions had been as follows:  “At 10 A.M. the artillery will open on enemy’s main positions with H.E., and at the same time the Archies will maintain a barrage along the far side, to keep them from breaking away to Smithson’s moor (a poor sportsman, Smithson; uses lachrymatories.  All the birds we got off his place last year actually had tears in their eyes still).  At 10.15 you will open fire with machine guns and rifles on anything under three hundred yards.  At 10.30 the firing will stop and you will make your way to the assembly trenches, where bombs will be served out.  At 10.35 the entire force will advance in open order.  No prisoners will be taken.”

My personal instructions were to hold my position with two men.  Hastily lighting a cigarette and adjusting my map-case, I was standing-to, when the telephone bell tinkled.  “Hello,” said Sir Percy’s voice, “all ready?  The planes are out.”  I glanced up at the two 500 h.p.  Liddell and Scott monoplanes, which circled high up over the moor.  “What do they report?” I asked.  “Birds in force at a.2.B.c.d., x.y.z.6 and A.b.3.m., and small parties in and near the Heather Redoubt.”

At 10.30 I left my smoking weapon and an empty flask, and at 10.35 went over the top.  A little later I brought down no fewer than seven of the enemy with one beautifully timed bomb, and stole a furtive glance at the others.  Nobody had seen me do it.  However, I thought, I shall be able to tell them about it at least three times to-night.

Meanwhile our bearers were collecting the enemy’s dead and finishing off his wounded.  Away to the left Sir Percy and half-a-dozen more were gathered round what I took to be the Heather Redoubt, and every now and then a little white puff of smoke broke from the ground.

“What’s the idea?” I asked over the telephone.  “Rabbit warren,” answered Sir Percy.  “Bombing ’em out.  I always bomb ’em out.  Smithson uses gas—­poor sportsman, Smithson.”

* * * * *

I was dozing lazily in the smoking-room, vaguely wondering if I could tell them about it a fourth time, when suddenly the dressing gong went, and someone shook me roughly by the shoulder.  Outside a voice was shouting, “Gas!”

“Poor sportsman, Smithson,” I muttered, struggling into my mask.

* * * * *

EXPERIENCES.

There are few of my friends whom I hold in higher respect than the Fladworths.  Fladworth is a prosperous accountant, quite in the front rank of his profession, and for the last three years an indefatigable War-worker.  His two sons joined up on the day War was declared; his three daughters are all nursing, and for the last two years their town house has been a convalescent home.  Mrs. Fladworth is a saint of hospitality, and their country house is always full for the week-end with people who want a rest.  And one can accept this hospitality with a good conscience, because they can afford it.  It does not involve the painful self-sacrifice shown by some people, of whom it has been happily said that, when their supplies are short, they will insist on your staying for a meal, “even if they have to kill a rabbit with a Christian name.”