“That won’t go, Henderson.  Orderly room at ten-thirty in the morning.  It’s the first case of cowardice in this unit and I’ll take damned good care that it will be the last.  Grant, escort the prisoner back to the wagon lines.”

I could not help feeling sorry for the poor devil because, coward though he was, his was one of those personalities that carried with it a sort of likeableness, somewhat after the fashion of our time-honored Falstaff, and his funk under fire made him liable to the extreme penalty,—­a firing squad.  His teeth chattered like the keys of a typewriter as he asked me, “What do you think will come o’ it, Grant?  Do you think he really means it?”

I hadn’t the heart to tell him what I really thought and strove to jolly him by saying that the Major would feel in a better humor in the morning, “and besides,” said I, “when we take back those trenches tomorrow, he will get over his flurry.”

I turned my prisoner over to the guard of the wagon lines, first informing the Quartermaster, and when he asked me what the trouble was, I had to tell him of the variance of the prisoner’s story told him and that he told the Major, and that the Major directed that he be up for orderly room in the morning.  Without any further ceremony Scotty was jammed in the clink.

It was now almost daybreak of the morning of the third day following our first gas attack and, almost ready to drop with fatigue, I went over to the wagon lines, gathered some straw and bags together under an ammunition wagon, and was in a dead sleep in less time than it takes to tell it.

At ten-thirty I reported to the orderly room to attend Scotty’s trial.  The Major was in his appointed place and in due course the guard marched in with the prisoner.  His ammunition pouches and cap had been removed and he stood to attention as well as the contour of his legs and the thickness of his yellow streak permitted.  Still I could not help remembering what he had done at Mons; there was no doubt about that because I had seen his scar and I knew that the ranks of the Seaforth Highlanders had never held a coward; and I mentally concluded that he must really have been suffering from shell shock or he would never have left his post as he did, and I sincerely hoped that he would in some way get through.  The evidence was short and conclusive and the verdict was curt and decisive:—­“held in close confinement for general field court martial at Steenwercke, May 12.”  And Scotty was led out looking as if he hadn’t a friend in the world; there was very little sympathy for him from anyone.

The same evidence was repeated at the field court martial trial, but the twinkle in Scotty’s eye must have reached the heart of the commanding officer for he was ordered deported to England, pending dishonorable discharge.  There he was sent to the military camp at Shorncliffe, put under open arrest and utilized around the camp in a number of ways for over a year.