The Boche had counted on that flanking fire.  His plan was to break our two wings—­the old Boche plan which crops up in every fight.  He left our centre at first pretty well alone, and thrust along the river bank and to the wood of La Bruyere, where we linked up with the division on our right.  Lefroy was in the first area, and Masterton in the second, and for three hours it was as desperate a business as I have ever faced . . .  The improvised switch went, and more and more of the forward zone disappeared.  It was a hot, clear spring afternoon, and in the open fighting the enemy came on like troops at manoeuvres.  On the left they got into the battle-zone, and I can see yet Lefroy’s great figure leading a counter-attack in person, his face all puddled with blood from a scalp wound . . .

I would have given my soul to be in two places at once, but I had to risk our left and keep close to Masterton, who needed me most.  The wood of La Bruyere was the maddest sight.  Again and again the Boche was almost through it.  You never knew where he was, and most of the fighting there was duels between machine-gun parties.  Some of the enemy got round behind us, and only a fine performance of a company of Cheshires saved a complete breakthrough.

As for Lefroy, I don’t know how he stuck it out, and he doesn’t know himself, for he was galled all the time by that accursed flanking fire.  I got a note about half past four saying that Wake had crossed the river, but it was some weary hours after that before the fire slackened.  I tore back and forward between my wings, and every time I went north I expected to find that Lefroy had broken.  But by some miracle he held.  The Boches were in his battle-zone time and again, but he always flung them out.  I have a recollection of Blenkiron, stark mad, encouraging his Americans with strange tongues.  Once as I passed him I saw that he had his left arm tied up.  His blackened face grinned at me.  ‘This bit of landscape’s mighty unsafe for democracy,’ he croaked.  ’For the love of Mike get your guns on to those devils across the river.  They’re plaguing my boys too bad.’

It was about seven o’clock, I think, when the flanking fire slacked off, but it was not because of our divisional guns.  There was a short and very furious burst of artillery fire on the north bank, and I knew it was British.  Then things began to happen.  One of our planes—­they had been marvels all day, swinging down like hawks for machine-gun bouts with the Boche infantry—­reported that Mitchinson was attacking hard and getting on well.  That eased my mind, and I started off for Masterton, who was in greater straits than ever, for the enemy seemed to be weakening on the river bank and putting his main strength in against our right . . .  But my G.S.O.2 stopped me on the road.  ‘Wake,’ he said.  ‘He wants to see you.’

‘Not now,’ I cried.

‘He can’t live many minutes.’