That afternoon some one procured a page of the _Daily Mirror_, which
printed the first casualty list of the war. Perhaps you can remember
reading it. One was not used to the sensation. One felt that "it brought
things home to one." Not that this was by any means necessary at that
time and place. Still it was very depressing to think that in God's
beautiful sunlight, brave, strong men were being maimed and laid low for
ever. One had a vague feeling that it was blasphemous, and ought to be
stopped.

It was not until dusk that a start was made, and the Regiment halted
again about a mile further on and settled down for the night in a
stubble field opposite a very imposing château.

Evidently the fight had gone well, for they passed at least two lines of
hasty trenches quite deserted.

The Germans had at last been driven back!

Any joy that this discovery might have occasioned was sobered and
tempered by the sight of small bodies of men bent double over their work
in the purple twilight. They were burying-parties. Two twigs tied
together and stuck in the brown mounds of earth was all the evidence
there was of each little tragedy. During the retreat the Subaltern had
naturally had little opportunity to realise this most pitiable side of
war, the cold Aftermath of Battle.

I will tell you of the inglorious way in which one man spent this
momentous day, the wonderful hours in which the tide turned, and a
Continent was saved--in chasing chickens! He was the Mess Sergeant, and