Five minutes later we reach the parapet—­that immovable rampart over which we have peeped so often and so cautiously with our periscopes—­and clamber up a sandbag staircase on to the summit.  We note that our barbed wire has all been cut away, and that another battalion, already extended into line, is advancing fifty yards ahead of us.  Bullets are pinging through the air, but the guns are once more silent.  Possibly they are altering their position.  Dotted about upon the flat ground before us lie many kilted figures, strangely still, in uncomfortable attitudes.

A mile or so upon our right we can see two towers—­pit-head towers—­standing side by side.  They mark the village of Loos, where another Scottish Division is leading the attack.  To the right of Loos again, for miles and miles and miles, we know that wave upon wave of impetuous French soldiers is breaking in a tempest over the shattered German trenches.  Indeed, we conjecture that down there, upon our right, is where the Biggest Push of all is taking place.  Our duty is to get forward if we can, but before everything to engage as many German troops and guns as possible.  Even if we fight for a week or more, and only hold our own, we shall have done the greater part of what was required of us.  But we hope to do more than that.

Upon our left lies the Hohenzollern.  It is silent; so we know that it has been captured.  Beyond that, upon our left front, looms Fosse Eight, still surmounted by its battered shaft-tower.  Right ahead, peeping over a low ridge, is a church steeple, with a clock-face in it.  That is our objective.

Next moment we have deployed into extended order, and step out, to play our little part in the great Battle of the Slag-Heaps.

II

Twenty-four hours later, a little group of officers sat in a roomy dug-out.  Major Kemp was there, with his head upon the plank table, fast asleep.  Bobby Little, who had neither eaten nor slept since the previous dawn, was nibbling chocolate, and shaking as if with ague.  He had gone through a good deal.  Waddell sat opposite to him, stolidly devouring bully-beef out of a tin with his fingers.  Ayling reclined upon the floor, mechanically adjusting a machine-gun lock, which he had taken from his haversack.  Captain Wagstaffe was making cocoa over a Tommy’s Cooker.  He looked less the worse for wear than the others, but could hardly have been described as spruce in appearance.  The whole party were splashed with mud and soaked to the skin, for it had rained hard during the greater part of the night.  They were all sick for want of food and sleep.  Moreover, all had seen unusual sights.  It was Sunday morning.

Presently Wagstaffe completed his culinary arrangements, and poured out the cocoa into some aluminium cups.  He touched Major Kemp on the shoulder.

“Have some of this, Major,” he said.

The burly Kemp roused himself and took the proffered cup gratefully.  Then, looking round, he said—­