Captain Blaikie turned to his faithful subaltern panting behind him.

“We are done in, Bobby,” he said.  “Look!  Wire!”

He was right.  This particular trench, it was true, was occupied by our friends; but it had been constructed in the first instance for the use of our enemies.  Consequently it was wired, and heavily wired, upon the side facing the British advance.

Captain Blaikie, directing operations with a walking-stick as if the whole affair were an Aldershot field-day, signalled to the Company to lie down, and began to unbutton a leather pouch in his belt.

“You too, Bobby,” he said; “and don’t dare to move a muscle until you get the order!”

He strolled forward, pliers in hand, and began methodically to cut a passage, strand by strand, through the forest of wire.

Then it was that invisible machine-guns opened, and a very gallant officer and Scotsman fell dead upon the field of honour.

Half an hour later, “A” Company, having expended all their ammunition and gained never a yard, fell back upon the rest of the Battalion.  Including Bobby Little (who seemed to bear a charmed life), they did not represent the strength of a platoon.

“I wonder what they will do with us next,” remarked Mr. Waddell, who had finished his bully.

“If they have any sense of decency,” said Major Kemp, “they will send us back to rest a bit, and put another Division in.  We have opened the ball and done a lot of dirty work for them, and have lost a lot of men and officers.  Bed for me, please!”

“I should be more inclined to agree with you, Major,” said Wagstaffe, “if only we had a bit more to show for our losses.”

“We haven’t done so badly,” replied Kemp, who was growing more cheerful under the influence of hot cocoa.  “We have got the Hohenzollern, and the Bosche first line at least, and probably Fosse Eight.  On the right I hear we have taken Loos.  That’s not so dusty for a start.  I have not the slightest doubt that there will be a heavy counter-attack, which we shall repel.  After that we shall attack again, and gain more ground, or at least keep the Bosche exceedingly busy holding on.  That is our allotted task in this entertainment—­to go on hammering the Hun, occupying his attention and using up his reserves, regardless of whether we gain ground or lose it, while our French pals on the right are pushing him off the map.  At least, that is my theory:  I don’t pretend to be in touch with the official mind.  This battle will probably go on for a week or more, over practically the same ground.  It will be dreadful for the wounded, but even if we only hold on to what we have gained already, we are the winners.  Still, I wish we could have consolidated Fosse Alley before going to bed.”

At this moment the Colonel, stooping low in the tiny doorway, entered the dug-out, followed by the Adjutant.  He bade his supporters good-morning.