The Subaltern looked up, and caught the eye of an Officer being carried off on a stretcher.  His mutilated leg was covered by his Burberry.  He instantly recognised him as an Officer who had “brought out” a “draft” some time previously.

If he were suffering great pain, he did not show it.  He seemed annoyed, and a little ashamed.

“Just the look,” thought the Subaltern, “that a fellow wears when he’s out at Cricket—­walking back to the Pavilion.”

The comparison, though not happy, was apt.  It was just like Cricket.  Some missed their catches; some never had any sent to them; and others did brilliant things.  A few had long innings, and compiled glorious scores, but the majority “got out” pretty soon.

He pulled from his pocket a “Caporal” cigarette, and placed it in his mouth, partly to show every one around how cool this inferno had left him, and partly to steady his nerves.  But just as he was striking the match, a violent desire to laugh assailed him.  He suppressed this tendency towards hysterics, but he shook so much that it was impossible to light the cigarette, and in the end he threw it away in disgust.

And so the day dragged on.  They were shelled with varying ferocity all the time.  Once they attempted to launch an attack, but it failed, almost before it had started.  The enemy artillery observation seemed too acute, the weight of his shells too heavy, and the wood in front too thick.

About three o’clock in the afternoon the General must have decided that the holding of the hill was too costly a business.  He therefore ordered it to be evacuated, and the troops to retire on the village of Poussey.  Every one, from the Colonel down, was privately relieved by this order, for every one felt that, if they had stayed there, by the end of the next day there would have been no regiment left.

The behaviour of the men had been superb.  They had entered into this new phase of the war with that strange combination of recklessness and reliability which had made our “contemptible little army” what it was.  Not a complaint had been uttered.  They had joked all day—­and there is an especial relish to jokes that are made between the thunderclaps—­but they were worn out, not only by the terrors of that day, but by the accumulated loss of sleep and lack of food.

A further advance was impossible.  The Germans had checked the onrush by the weight of their artillery.  The victory of the Marne was over.  The phase of the deadlock had begun.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE CELLARS OF POUSSEY

The Subaltern was too dazed to realise the significance of the day’s fighting, but he brought his men back to the village without mishap, and behind the shelter of its walls they lay down to sleep just as they were.

In a little time the whole Battalion was rallied in the village, and fresh reinforcements were sent forward to hold a line nearer the village.