Major Hardy had not been ten days on the Peninsula before he made his reputation.  His monocle, his “what,” and his rich maledictions were admired and imitated all along the Brigade front.  From Fusilier Bluff to Stanley Street it was agreed that Major Foolhardy was a Sahib.  Twice a day every bay in the trench system was cursed by him.  “God! give me ten Turks and a dog, and I’d capture the whole of this sector any hour of the day or night,” and his head was over the parapet in broad daylight, examining the Turkish peepholes.  It was a common saying that he would be hit one fine morning.

The morning came.  The Signal Officer and I were sitting in the Headquarters Mess, sipping an eleven o’clock cherry brandy, and wondering why the General and the Brigade Major had not returned from their tour of the trenches.  Headquarters were situated in Gully Ravine, that prince among ravines on the Peninsula.  From my place I could see the gully floor, which was the dry bed of a water-course, winding away between high walls of perpendicular cliffs or steep, scrub-covered slopes, as it pursued its journey, like some colossal trench, towards the firing line.  Down the great cleft, while I looked, a horseman came riding rapidly.  He was an officer, with a slight open wound in his chin, and he rode up to our door and said:  “Hardy’s hit.  A hole in the face.”

He was followed by the General, whose clothes and hands were splashed with Major Hardy’s blood.  The General told us what had happened.  He had been talking to Hardy and some others on Fusilier Bluff, when the infamous whizz-bang gun—­that messenger of Satan sent to buffet us—­shot a shell whose splinters took the Major in the face and lungs.  He dropped, saying “Dammit, I’m hit, what,” and was now being taken in a dying condition down Gully Ravine to the Field Ambulance.

It surprised me what an everyday affair this tragedy seemed.  There were expressions of sorrow, but no hush of calamity.  Jests were made at lunch, and all ate as heartily as usual.  “Well, he lasted ten days,” said the Brigadier, “which is more than a good many have done.”

Personally, I found myself repeating, in my wool-gathering way, the word “Two.”  Already two out of the five who sat down to lunch together that first day on board the Rangoon had been killed—­and, for that matter, by the same gun.  “Two.”  “The knitting women counted two.”  Ah! that was what I was thinking of.  The knitting women had knitted two off the strength of that little company.  Monty, Doe, and myself were left.  I wondered which of those would have fallen when the knitting women should count “Three.”

It was not difficult to prophesy.  Monty, though he was as venturesome as any combatant, could never quite share the dangers of the men who lived in the trenches.  His dug-out, back in the Eski Line, was safe from everything but a howitzer shell.  And I—­ye gods!  I was comparatively secure, loafing about in the softest job in the Army.  Everything pointed to Doe as Number Three.