```The Boche is through,’ he said. `Where’s the officer?’ `Through!’ they said.  It didn’t seem possible.  However did he do that? they thought.  And the runner went on to the right to look for the officer.

``And then the barrage shifted further back.  The shells still screamed over them, but the bursts were further away.  That is always a relief.  Probably they felt it.  But it was bad for all that.  Very bad.  It meant the Boche was well past them.  They realized it after a while.

``They and their bit of wire were somehow just between two waves of attack.  Like a bit of stone on the beach with the sea coming in.  A platoon was nothing to the Boche; nothing much perhaps just then to anybody.  But it was the whole of Daleswood for one long generation.

``The youngest full-grown man they had left behind was fifty, and some one had heard that he had died since the war.  There was no one else in Daleswood but women and children, and boys up to seventeen.

``The bombing had stopped on their right; everything was quieter, and the barrage further away.  When they began to realize what that meant they began to talk of Daleswood.  And then they thought that when all of them were gone there would be nobody who would remember Daleswood just as it used to be.  For places alter a little, woods grow, and changes come, trees get cut down, old people die; new houses are built now and then in place of a yew tree, or any old thing, that used to be there before; and one way or another the old things go; and all the time you have people thinking that the old times were best, and the old ways when they were young.  And the Daleswood men were beginning to say, `Who would there be to remember it just as it was?’

``There was no gas, the wind being wrong for it, so they were able to talk, that is if they shouted, for the bullets alone made as much noise as breaking up an old shed, crisper like, more like new timber breaking; and the shells of course was howling all the time, that is the barrage that was bursting far back.  The trench still stank of them.

``They said that one of them must go over and put his hands up, or run away if he could, whichever he liked, and when the war was over he would go to some writing fellow, one of those what makes a living by it, and tell him all about Daleswood, just as it used to be, and he would write it out proper and there it would be for always.  They all agreed to that.  And then they talked a bit, as well as they could above that awful screeching, to try and decide who it should be.  The eldest, they said, would know Daleswood best.  But he said, and they came to agree with him, that it would be a sort of waste to save the life of a man what had had his good time, and they ought to send the youngest, and they would tell him all they knew of Daleswood before his time, and everything would be written down just the same and the old time remembered.

``They had the idea somehow that the women thought more of their own man and their children and the washing and what-not; and that the deep woods and the great hills beyond, and the plowing and the harvest and snaring rabbits in winter and the sports in the village in summer, and the hundred things that pass the time of one generation in an old, old place like Daleswood, meant less to them than the men.  Anyhow they did not quite seem to trust them with the past.