A man came galloping up wildly from the Heavies.  They had run out of fuses.  Already we had sent urgent messages to the ammunition lorries, but the road was blocked and they could not get up to us.  So Grimers was sent off with a haversack—­mine—­to fetch fuses and hurry up the lorries.  How he got there and back in the time that he did, with the traffic that there was, I cannot even now understand.

It was now about two o’clock, and every moment the news that we heard grew worse and worse, while the wounded poured past us in a continuous stream.  I gave my water-bottle to one man who was moaning for water.  A horse came galloping along.  Across the saddle-bow was a man with a bloody scrap of trouser instead of a leg, while the rider, who had been badly wounded in the arm, was swaying from side to side.

A quarter of an hour before the brigade on our right front had gone into action on the crest of the hill.  Now they streamed back at the trot, all telling the tale—­how, before they could even unlimber, shells had come crashing into them.  The column was a lingering tragedy.  There were teams with only a limber and without a gun.  And you must see it to know what a twistedly pathetic thing a gun team and limber without a gun is.  There were bits of teams and teams with only a couple of drivers.  The faces of the men were awful.  I smiled at one or two, but they shook their heads and turned away.  One sergeant as he passed was muttering to himself, as if he were repeating something over and over again so as to learn it by rote—­“My gun, my gun, my gun!”

At this moment an order came from some one for the motor-cyclists to retire to the farm where we had slept the night.  The others went on with the crowd, but I could not start my engine.  After trying for five minutes it seemed to me absurd to retreat, so I went back and found that apparently nobody had given the order.  The other motor-cyclists returned one by one as soon as they could get clear, but most of them were carried on right past the farm.

A few minutes later there was a great screaming crash overhead—­shrapnel.  I ran to my bicycle and stood by waiting for orders.

The General suggested mildly that we might change our headquarters.  There was a second crash.  We all retired about 200 yards back up the road.  There I went to the captain in the middle of the traffic and asked him what I should do.  He told us to get out of it as we could not do anything more—­“You have all done magnificently”—­then he gave me some messages for our subaltern.  I shouted, “So long, sir,” and left him, not knowing whether I should ever see him again.  I heard afterwards that he went back when all the operators had fled and tried to get into communication with our Army H.Q.

Just as I had started up my engine another shell burst about 100 yards to the left, and a moment later a big waggon drawn by two maddened horses came dashing down into the main street.  They could not turn, so went straight into the wall of a house opposite.  There was a dull crash and a squirming heap piled up at the edge of the road.