It was on the Somme. We were in the middle of a bit of a show, and
we were all hands down in shell holes with a heavy machine-gun fire
crackling overhead. I was in one hole, and in the next, which
merged with mine, were two chaps who were cousins.

Mad Harry came along, walking perfectly upright, regardless of
danger, with his left arm shattered. He dropped into the next shell
hole and with his expressionless drawl unshaken, said, "Private X.
Dress my arm."

Private X got out his own emergency bandage and fixed the arm. When
it was done Mad Harry, still speaking in his monotonous drone,
said:

"Now, Private X, get up out of this hole. Don't be hiding."

Private X obeyed orders without a question. He climbed out and fell
with a bullet through his head. His cousin, who was a very dear
friend of the boy, evidently went more or less crazy at this. I saw
him leap at Mad Harry and snatch his pistol from the holster. He
was, I think, about to shoot his officer when a shell burst
overhead and killed them both.

Well, on this first day of the hike Mad Harry ordered us out for
foot inspection, as I have said. I found that I simply couldn't get
them out. They were in no condition for foot inspection,--hadn't
washed for days. Harry came round and gave me a royal dressing down
and ordered the whole bunch out for parade and helmet inspection.
We were kept standing for an hour. You couldn't blame the men for
hating an officer of that kind.